


To Write Love on His Arm

by ec_writes



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: ?????, Death, F/M, Slow Burn, Soulmate AU, idk guys just be prepared, much angst, much fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6760051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ec_writes/pseuds/ec_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is fourteen the first time markings appear on his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love with a soulmate concept of one person drawing on their skin, and their other half sees it reflected on theirs. Pair it with a ship that will never come true in DA canon and you've got THIS. Enjoy!

:::

He is fourteen the first time markings appear on his skin.

Anxious, alone, and all too aware of the quiet, Alistair whispers to himself to fill the emptiness of the night. Despite the years he’s spent in the Monastery, he is not accustomed to the numbing silence. He thinks of screaming, just to see if anyone would hear it, would even care, but he can’t bring himself to try. Covering his face with his hands, he wills himself to sleep, just to be done with it all and find peace in his dreams.

Then, he feels it; a soft brush, as though the edge of a quill is lightly touching his wrist. He sits up in his cot, squinting his eyes as he raises his arm to the light of the moon, and he is left in awe. Slowly, almost intricately, speckles of black ink decorate his skin, one by one.

He thinks he should be frightened; Maker knows any of the other children in the Monastery would think him a mage for seeing this. Yet, the feeling of complete euphoria takes over before fear could ever touch him.

It is then that stories from his days in Redcliffe begin to surface in his mind. Stories of star-crossed lovers and ancient myths that seemed so far-fetched, until now. He remembers a song the Elven maids used to sing of the first humans; powerful beings with two heads, four arms, and four legs. They sang of the old Elven Gods fearing these creatures, for they foresaw them bringing their ruin. In desperation, they called upon an ancient magic to rip each human into two; doomed to spend their days searching for their missing half. However, these early humans were still so deeply intertwined, they could speak to one another through mirrored markings in their skin, for their flesh was still one, as were their souls.

He stares down at the markings, terrified, yet completely enthralled. Its foolish to think, but could such a story hold truth? Is his soul so deeply intertwined with another, that he can see any brushstroke they make upon their skin on his very own?

For a moment, Alistair forgets the painful quiet and the aching loneliness of the Monastery. He doesn’t think to fear the possible magic that is taking effect to his body, or what could happen if a Sister or Templar were to learn of it. All that exists is the growing collection of dots on his wrist, and the thought that _maybe_ , somewhere, someone was connected to him.

:::

They are constellations.

Alistair learns this after careful study, noticing how each mark is made with keen precision. He watches them closely, drawing invisible lines to connect them, trying to see if he can guess the picture before… _who ever_ is making them finishes. It makes him curious; what brings them to copy the stars into their skin? Are they a scholar in training? Do they find it soothing? Is it done out of sheer boredom?

He tries to remain rational, reminding himself of magic’s purpose. He can not let the idea of this fabled connection rule over him, so he spends his time in the library, trying to find some kind of magic that could replicate what he is experiencing. However, there is nothing. He worries of blood magic, but he can’t convince himself to believe that a demon could create the night’s sky in his skin.

There are nights when he wonders how this other person, _his_ other person, would respond if he marked them back, but he is too afraid. He fears the thought of never falling asleep to the sight of black stars decorating his wrists. Though he is finally finding comfort in his training for the Order and the strict, demanding practices of its labors, he fears the thought of losing the one thing in this place that brings him true peace.

:::

A year has passed, and Alistair now has the shape of every constellation memorized, often whispering the name to himself as he watches the beginning sequences of stars appear.

He can’t count how many times he’s sat in his cot, staring at the beginnings of the night sky brought to life against his skin, with a quill clutched tightly in his hand. There is only one night that he is brave enough to dip it in ink, prepared to let his presence be known. Whoever is on the other side of this connection, they deserve to know that someone sees it. That someone watches their stars shine in with more excitement and awe than when they look to the real thing.

But what if it’s a trick? What if this is a demon’s way to snake itself into his mind? What if by trying to reach out, he lets something wicked in?

The ink in his quill drips. He does not move in time to keep it from hitting his skin, and the starry night that began to color his wrist is smothered in black. He panics, jumping from his cot and grabbing the closest piece of cloth he can to wipe away the mess, but it is too late. The ink has stained him, taken the sky his other was creating and made it empty.

A few of the other trainees wake. They mumble incoherently as they toss to their sides and drift back to slumber, but Alistair can not rest. He sits alone on the cold floor, his mouth a fine line, and he stares at his grey tinted wrist, watching as the few blackened dots that were left begin to fade away.

“No,” he whispers to himself, his anguish apparent in the way his face contorts.

He bites his lip and stares absently to the lone window of the room. Despite the moon shining brightly, and despite the twinkle of starlight streaming in from afar, Alistair knew the stars that mattered most to him were gone.

:::

Its been months since Alistair has seen a constellation grace his skin.

The first nights without them were the hardest. Falling asleep without counting out stars, without the sensation of a quill against his skin, felt…wrong.

He attempts to write his other, but his words are too cluttered, and his emotions too strong to let him make a coherent apology. He can only imagine how terrifying it must have been for them, to see their simple work of art suddenly turn into a haunting mess of black. He thinks of how hard they must have tried to cleanse their arm, only to find that the stain he had made would not wash away.

Maker, he’s such an idiot.

Sitting alone in the shade of the Monastery’s courtyard, Alistair watches idly as the potential Templars spar in their make-shift ring. He half-considers joining them, but knows it is best to keep his distance. They all judge him, he knows it. They see him as a self-righteous bastard, in more ways than one. He cares little, however. There was a time when their good opinion meant everything to him, but he gave up trying to gain it. Could any of them give him the stars the way his other once had?

No, they could not.

With a sigh, he moves to stand and use his free time for something other than drowning in his thoughts, and then he feels it; the soft, grazing sensation of a quill against his skin.

Alistair grabs at the sleeve of his tunic, pulling it up with such vigor he nearly rips the fabric. There is a moment where his heartbeat comes to a complete stop, watching with bated breath as ink paints the ruddy skin of his wrist.

The sight of it feels like being greeted by an old friend, and Alistair smiles unabashedly as he sits down in the shaded grass once more, entranced as a starry night takes over his day.

:::

He must be a fool for wanting to try again.

Yet, there he is: sitting upright in his cot, quill clutched tightly as he tries to decipher the constellation being brought to life on his skin. He chews on the inside of his cheek as he waits for another star to be placed; he needs to be sure of what image his other is trying to make.

Two more stars appear, and his eyes grow wide.

Another, and he raises his quill to his wrist.

One more, and he presses the ink to his skin, looping the name of the constellation slowly so that it is clear to see.

_"Tenebrium"_

His lungs are in his throat as he waits for a response. Fear eats away at his nerves, screaming at him for trying to reach out.

“What if you ruined it again?” it says. “What if you ruined it for good this time?”

The constellation begins to wash away, and the fear attacks his heart with a vicious spike of pain. He spits on his arm and wipes at the ink, wishing in vain that doing so could erase what he had done.

“Idiot,” he thinks, staring at his arm now stained grey. “Such an _idiot_.”

He closes his eyes and falls flat against his pillow, willing himself not to scream and wake the whole damned Monastery in his strife.

:::

The next night, he is amazed to find a new constellation being plotted against his wrist. Only this time, there is a small, shaky question mark beside the final star.

:::


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't plan on writing any of this. Yet... It happened. Guess this is going to be longer than I intended.

:::

Nearly a year passes, and Alistair cannot remember a time he was happier than he is now.

His life at the Monastery has not changed; he still wakes every morning at sunrise, still practices the Chant with dismal aptitude. He still trains amongst his peers in the ways of the Templar, learning how to hunt down apostates and protect future charges from the dangers of magic. The only difference between now and then, is the smile he gets as his arm tickles with a familiar sensation, and the quick glances he takes at his wrist when no one is looking.

Alistair no longer has to wait for dusk's arrival to have a constellation touch his skin. Now, his other has begun to draw them sporadically at any given time, and _Maker_ , he could never explain how happy it makes him. It's as though a dream has become reality, and it helps give him the push he needs to get through another dismal day.

However, he still prefers his time with them in the late hours of night; when all the Monastery is asleep, and he can write without a great worry of being caught. The feeling of holding out his wrist in the open, watching the stars come to life and wash away to birth another set, it makes him feel whole.

Who knew home could feel like a quill against his skin? Who knew the sight of a question mark upon his wrist could speak deeper to him than the very Chant that is meant to bring him closer to his God?

:::

_"Is this blood magic?"_

The words appear on his wrist in shaky writing. He reads them over and over, nearly waking the whole damned Monastery with his laughing, and when quiet takes hold of the night once more, he writes back:

_"Don't think so. I'm not a mage."_

There is still a chuckle in his throat as he waits for a response, rubbing his thumb idly against his other's writing and admiring the curve of every letter. He tries to deny slumber's call as he lies in his cot, but the fullness in his heart and the calmed state of his soul brings his mind to rest. He falls asleep before small, loopy letters paint his wrist with two simple words.

_"I am."_

:::

When he wakes the next morning, he smiles.

In his dreams, his other has a face. He can't remember it, but it is kind, with a smile so bright and a laugh that warms every inch of his soul. He could touch them, hold them, tell them how they made his lonely nights not so lonely and whisper 'thank you's in their ear for every star that ever kissed his skin.

But when he looks to his wrist, his dream dies. The warmth of his other's smile turns cold, and their laugh suddenly goes silent. He cannot remember what it was like to hold them, and his body aches to feel something it never can, and never will.

A Mage and a Templar could never truly be friends. Should even an air of suspicion arise about them being a Maleficar, he'd have to strike them down without a second thought. He could never be close to them. Maker, writing to them this long could have very well put them in danger.Too much danger.

With that thought, Alistair washes his wrist and tells himself its over.

If it kept his other safe, even just a the tiniest bit, he could live with being lonely.

:::

Weeks have passed, yet he still finds constellations in his skin.

Though it is not as frequent, question marks will sometimes follow the final star. He won't write it, but Alistair will whisper the name to himself. It is foolish, but he wishes his other could hear him, just so they know they aren't alone.

:::

_"Are you still there?"_

The words are thickly written, almost popping off his skin as he stares absently at them. They twist and turn in a way that is desperate, and it hurts him to keep looking knowing that there is nothing he can say. So, despite the aching in his chest for contact, despite how much he craves the sight of their ink cover him beneath his sleeves, he does not write back. Instead, he curls into himself, staring with red eyes at their plea.

He thought he could handle living a lonely life, but what if it means his other will be lonely too?

:::

It is the eve before Alistair's seventeenth birthday.

The night has yet to claim the sky, but already his peers venture to bed. He considers joining them; there is an aching in his body from the day's training that renders each step heavier than the next, but he chooses instead to enter the library. It has become a custom of his to leaf through old texts and scrolls, reminiscing about a time when the images that paint their pages decorated more than just simple parchment.

It hurts to think of it, but his other has stopped trying to reach for him. A constellation has not been gifted to him in the late hours of night for some time, and though he knows it is for the best, it leaves him sleepless and cold. The old tome's drawings don't hold the same character as the works of his other, but if he gazes long enough before his eyes grow too heavy to focus, he can at least pretend.

:::

"What's that?"

Alistair quickly lifts his lulling head, staring overtly at the girl beside him. "Hm-what?"

A slight eyebrows arches, and he feels uneasy as she glares.

"Your arm," she says, her voice stony. "What's on it?"

Mouth hanging open, he takes a quick glimpse. Small, loopy words poke out from his sleeve, and he quickly covers it.

"Nothing!" he exclaims. "Nothing, just some…. Notes! On the Chant and, you know… Templar things."

Her nose crinkles as she turns away from him. Alistair stares out at the trainees in the courtyard, looking cautiously for anyone that might catch him straying from their sparring lesson. With great haste, he moves to a secluded space beside the Monastery wall and lifts his sleeve to stare at his wrist once more.

_"Make me one within Your glory._

_And let the world once more see Your favor._

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world,_

_And comfort is only Yours to give."_

:::

When his lessons are done and the night is his, Alistair reads the passage over and over, his chest tightening as his eyes linger at the final line. Perhaps he was reading too deeply into it; Mages have to study the Chant just as deliberately as Templars, it _could_ just be a note for themselves to remember that particular passage. But there is a part of him that does not believe that. Deep down, he believes his other is trying to reach out again.

He is trying to steel himself, trying to convince himself that ignoring them is for the better. But Alistair has never been good at that.

With shaking hands, Alistair dips his quill in ink, and brushes it against his skin.

_"In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

_I will see the stars and know_

_Your Light remains."_

Sometimes, he thinks, as he watches his own verse dry, it is okay to be weak.

:::

_"I'm a Templar."_

He isn't sure why he chose to tell them. Perhaps it is because he felt it to be only right; after all, his other did tell him they're a Mage. Perhaps he thought it would explain why he tried so hard to stay away, so that they understood the severity of their situation. Whatever the reason, he hopes they react differently than he did. He doesn't want them to give up like he did.

It takes some time, but eventually their ink colors his skin with their curled letters. 

_"Okay."_

It is only one word, but it is enough to render Alistair speechless. He cannot think of a way to describe the happiness that overtakes him. Though he is still so very frightened for his other, hoping his weakness will not end in them being harmed, he is so thankful for their acceptance. It is all he's ever wanted, and he found it in their inked stars and looping words.

The skin of his wrist tickles once more, and a new message appears:

" _You must be a piss-poor Templar, then."_

The sound of Alistair's cackling echoes throughout the library, scaring half the Sisters in its wake.

:::

Months fly by without a flicker of recognition, and it is no longer just constellations that decorate his wrist. Now there are words, figures, sketches of flowers and homely looking Templars meant to tease him, and each one pieces together the mosaic of who his other is on the other side of this connection.

His fear of magic has not wavered; he is all too aware of the wickedness it can create. However, he is now aware of a beauty within it. One that he will never, _ever_ let go of again.

:::


	3. Chapter 3

:::

_"I don't think I'm cut out for this Templar thing."_

Alistair sighs as he leans back in his chair, secluded in his far-off corner of the library. He lets his head droop, stretching the aching muscles of his neck, shoulders, and chest while squeezing his eyes shuts tight. His training is getting harder by the day, and though he enjoys the physical aspect of it, every day that he learns what it is to be a Templar is a day that he feels in his heart he can not commit.

He looks to his wrist as the itch of his other's quill fades. " _I could have told you that."_  

He laughs softly. _"Ouch! Not very nice."_

 _"You're too kind,"_ they write. _"Kind Templars never last."_

Alistair does not know how to respond. He wonders to himself what his other must go through in the Circle, if the Templars are truly unkind, or just seem that way to their charges. He tries to imagine it from their side; being forced into a life they never wanted, surrounded by people that would never truly be their family. Never showing a hint of love or care, only empty eyes that see nothing but a potential problem amongst them.

It does not take him long to realize he's already living that life.

:::

When a man named Duncan arrives at the Monastery, Alistair doesn't think much of it. He _is_ curious, of course; it's not common to have visitors that aren't new recruits for the Order. However, he tries to keep his focus on the matters before him.

But when he learns the man is the Commander of the Ferelden Grey, something sparks in him. It is the only reason he agrees to fight in the Tourney held in his honor. He knows he'll be bested, but it's beside the point. For the first time in a long time, ever since he walked through those Monastery doors as a boy, he truly wants to fight for something. He never expected for the man to offer him a place in the Wardens.

He goes to his cot for what might be the last time, escaping the inane Sister and Duncan's arguing for the night. His heart and head are heavy with what might become, thinking of how _everything_ in his life may change in less than a day. He is restless, tossing and turning as the other trainees whisper and grumble out of earshot. He knows they are speaking about him, no doubt spitting venom about the 'bastard prince' getting something he never deserved, but he does not care. All he wants his for the night to claim them, so that he may write his other. Their opinion is the only one he cares to know.

:::

" _I may have a chance to leave the Templars."_

Their reply takes nary a minute to write. " _You're not running are you?"_

 _"No,"_ he quickly scrawls. _"I'd be leaving safely."_

The next response comes just as swiftly as the first. _"You should take it."_

Alistair feels as though a weight is lifting as he writes, but still, deep within his belly, there is an ache. He feels uncertain, but he can not think of a reason why. There is no reason he should want to stay with the Order. He never wanted to lead that life, it was simply the only one he was given. The Grey Wardens could give him something different, something he could _want_ to become.

Then he realizes, as he touches the handwriting that colors his skin, there is one thing the Wardens can not give him.

:::

Duncan comes for him the next morning.

There is no chance for him to write his other before the long trek to Ostagar. He hopes that in his silence, they do not believe he's left them. He hopes they know he is there. Always.

:::

The sight of Darkspawn leaves him shaken. He is able to cut them down, showing more bravery in the midst of a fight than even he thought he could muster. However, it is when he arrives back to the Fortress that his courage fails him. He will be called for the Joining at any time and he is afraid. He has no idea what is to come, and not knowing leaves him terrified.

With the little coin he owns, he buys a small vial of ink and goes to the solitude of his small tent. It has been over a week since he's written his other, and he is desperate to feel their touch.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ he begins. " _I meant to write sooner."_

He wants to tell them of the Wardens, of the kind men he's met and is time with them. He wants to tell them of the good moments he's had since he left the Monastery, but all that he can focus on his the sight of decaying skin and sound of inhuman snarls. The unknown danger that lurks outside his tent, awaiting him at his Joining is leaving him incapable of focusing. How can he tell them all of this in such little time? How can he fit all of his anxieties on the space of his wrist?

Suddenly, the feeling of his other's touch takes hold, and his mind calms. He watches every letter form, every word come together to form their voice in writing.

 _"It's alright,"_ they say, their loopy penmanship is graceful and puts him at ease. _"Are you safe?"_

He wishes he could answer them honestly.

 _"I'm not sure when I'll be able to write you again,"_ he begins. " _I just—"_

He hears one of the recruits call for him, and he grows anxious.

_"I have to go."_

He wishes he had more time. He wants nothing more than to stay where he is, reading his other's handwriting and counting their stars for the rest of the night, but he knows he must commit to his new calling. He is nervous, _afraid_ even, but he is ready.

He looks to his wrist one final time to read what could be his other's final words.

_"Please be safe. I'll be waiting."_

:::

There is a moment he thinks he won't wake up.

There is something… crawling in his mind. Screeching. Seething. All over. Flashes of images hit him. He doesn't understand them, yet the taint in his body reacts to it, like a warning.

When his eyes finally open, Duncan and the other Wardens are at his side. They help him to his feet and rejoice in his victory over the taint, though it is short-lived. Not all were able to beat it.

He meets the night ravenous, devouring anything in his path and drinking his weight in ale and water. If he were to describe it, he'd say it was _invigorating_. He's never felt felt more alive than this night.

And when he crawls into the comfort of his tent, he looks to his wrist and mouths his other's words over and over until he is lost in slumber.

He hopes they truly will be waiting tomorrow morning.

:::

_"You seem happier."_

He smiles at the message, the light of the campfire outside giving off just enough light for him to write his other. He's been a Grey Warden for nearly four months, and it's been the best part of his life so far. He feels at home with Duncan and his men. Though he still feels the sins of his father follow him in certain moments, it is much better with the Wardens than it was in the Monastery.

He dips his quill and ink and quickly writes, " _I am."_

_"Good. I still think you would have been a stinky Templar."_

Alistair laughs out loud and replies, _"Stinky? You've run out of insults."_

 _"It's late and I'm sleepy,"_ they scribble, though their scribbles are much more eligible than his writing, " _You try coming up with clever insults while drooling."_

 _"Ha! You underestimate my wit!"_ he writes. " _What about you? Are you happy?"_

_"I am now."_

In that moment, he is certain his life could not get better.

:::

There is a stirring in the Wilds.

He isn't as in tune with the Darkspawn as the others, but he can sense something is wrong. There is a forlorn, shadowed look in Duncan's eyes that Alistair is not accustomed to seeing, and it leaves him weary. He wonders how long this _something_ has been building, and if this _something_ is a Blight.

They've begun to raise an army. Duncan is now traveling across all of Ferelden, searching for new recruits to the Wardens, and Alistair knows that he'll be going to the Circle. His other has given no mention of it, but he holds out for the news still. It may be a slim chance, but what if Duncan takes a Mage as a recruit? What if it’s his other that he chooses? The very idea fills him with excitement, and at the same time, complete fear. Though the Wardens have given him a better life, the dangers of joining are still fresh in his memory. 

He keeps himself preoccupied with helping the Wardens in any little way he can, but the prospect of possibly meeting his other will not leave him. He knows it is a slim chance, but still…

It doesn't hurt to hope at little.

:::


	4. Chapter 4

:::

The army grows larger with each day, but the arrival of King Cailan leaves Alistair uneasy. He does his best to keep away from His Majesty, focusing instead on any menial task that he can snatch to stay out of sight. It keeps him busy, which keeps his mind from thinking about the parts of himself he finds less desirable, almost shameful. The only drawback is that it takes away any time he has to speak with his other.

They've grown understanding of his long absences, choosing to still cover his arm with stars and words that fill the more broken parts of him with something indescribable. 

There are many times he considers asking them about the possible presence of Grey Wardens in Kinloch Hold, but he chooses to keep quiet. It feels too invasive; after all, he hasn't even told them that he is a member of the Grey Wardens. For all they know, he is a nameless person aimlessly wandering Ferelden. They don't need to speak of the more intimate parts of who they are, and if his other is happy with that, he is happy as well.

At least… for now.

:::

He is unprepared when he meets the new recruit.

The friction between Mages and _literally_ everyone else in Ostagar is growing tiresome, and it frustrates Alistair to no end. Many whine of their "poor" accommodations, being overused, or not used enough for them to be there. He thought the Mages would want to be free of the Circle; the way his other speaks of it, it's rather… unsavory. He finds himself fantasizing about pig-tying half the lot and bringing them back to the Circle in exchange for his other. Maker knows he'd be willing to give anything to have them at his side.

Alistair mentally groans when he is asked to pass a message for the Revered Mother, and it doesn't help that the Mage he speaks to is a living, breathing headache. One sarcastic comment after another, he smirks to himself as the man storms off.

And then he sees her.

Her lips are tucked tightly in between her teeth in an attempt to hide a growing smile, though it is very much a losing battle. He tries not to fidget where he stands, tries not to think about how the sun intensifies the warm color of her hair.

Her voice is soft, he has to move closer to hear her, and _Maker_ , his heart is racing so fast. His knees go weak when she laughs at him; he wonders if his other laughs like that when he writes something witty. He begins to wonder, to hope.

"I don't suppose you would happen to be another mage?"

:::

The Amell girl fights with a surprising amount of talent, despite never leaving the Circle before. Her spells hit half the Darkspawn before the other recruits can bring one down. He is impressed, _extremely_ impressed, and it makes him more anxious to know more about her.

She looks to the monsters and witches that lurk in the Wilds without a flicker of hesitation. Every challenge she faces, she faces it with confidence and a light that is almost blinding.

Maker willing, could he really that lucky? Could she be his other?

:::

There is no time to write after their expedition into the Wilds. The recruits barely have a moment to relieve themselves before Duncan ushers the group into their Joining. He is nervous for them; he knows how hard the blood can be on someone. He hopes they all make it. He hopes _she_ makes it.

When only one survives, he silently thanks the Maker that it is her.

:::

She is playful.

Despite the pain he knows is coursing through her after the Joining, and despite the looming threat the Wilds bring, she still jokes. She makes quips with him, lightens the heavy weight that threatens to suffocate them with her laugh and smile. Maker, it's almost too much.

When the Darkspawn attacks, she keeps that light. Never wavering, never letting the terror of the battle affect her. He follows her lead with a sense of belonging, and though he fears enough for the both of them, he stays collected thanks to her.

But when the beacon is lit, no one comes to help.

There is no calvary, only Darkspawn. There is no hope, only impending death.

When he falls, he fears the thought of losing her light.

He fears never knowing if his other was ever at his side.

:::

When he wakes in the Witches' home, he is terrified.

They seem to be cold and callous, but they saved him. He does not know what to think of their kindness, and fears what they may ask of him in return. The moment he can, he leaves their hut and breathes in the cold, dead air of the Wilds.

They tell him everyone is gone: the King, the Wardens, _Duncan._

Loghain never came. They lit that damned beacon and the bastard left them all for dead. He thinks of all the nights he spent at their side; drinking, laughing, full of life and ready to live it to whatever end. He knew the life of a Warden was short, but this? It wasn't fair.

He does not know if Amell will survive. He is afraid that he will be the last of the Ferelden Grey, with no idea how to stop the Blight on his own.

:::

He does not hear Morrigan's mother when his eyes land upon his Warden comrade. The Korcari Wilds is silent, invisible; the whole world disappears from view as he watches her walk out of the hut.

_"You… You're alive!"_

It takes everything in him not to reach out and hold her, to thank the Maker for not taking away _everything_ from him. Her smile lessens the ache in his heart. There is a fire in her eyes and a strength in her voice as they plan their next move, and it ignites the part of him that he thought lay dead with the rest of the Wardens.

They were going to raise an army. They were going to save Ferelden, and they were going to make Loghain pay for his treachery.

Perhaps his luck is much better than he thinks.

:::

He buys a bottle of ink in Lothering.

The merchant looks at him peculiarly when he doesn't purchase a roll of vellum, but he handles it with his typical, awkward charm. The others of the group pay no heed to him as he buys it; they are too busy speaking to the people of the tavern, as well as gaining a new member to their cause. Quickly and quietly, he places it in his pack and joins them. His heart races at the thought of speaking to his other again. He feels as though it's been ages since he's spoken to them.

With a quick glance to Amell, he smiles to himself and hopes that, _maybe_ , they've been with him this whole time.

:::


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible at updating.

:::

It is the first night at camp.

Darkness blankets everything but the dual fires of the grounds, and although Alistair knows he is the only one awake, he hides his ink and quill in the center of his lap. He is nervous, _painfully_ nervous. His hands have been shaking since the others laid their heads down to sleep. He considers postponing, maybe trying another day, but he knows now is the only time he has to write his other. He thinks of the Blight, of Loghain and the great obstacles that stand in his way, and he wonders if he'll ever get another chance.

With a deep breath, Alistair dips the quill in ink. He places one mark, contemplating what part of the night sky he should paint. What constellation does his other draw the most? What set of stars would cause them to smile the brightest? He glances toward Amell, now a bundle sleeping only steps away from him, and wonders which one she would pick.

Yet, it is not an hour later that Alistair feels a prickle against his wrist. At first, he merely smacks it, thinking of the insects that lurk around the fire, but it does nothing to stop the sensation. He holds his arm to the light, expecting a collection of bites, but is met with the sight of eager loopy writing.

_"There you are!"_

He wants to be happy at the sight their words, but the feeling dies as he looks to Amell and sees that she is still sound asleep. An ache creeps through his stomach to his throat, and his mouth narrows to a hard line.

He is wrong, so very wrong.

The brushing of his other continues, but a part of him doesn't want to read, doesn't want to hope for something more to come of the ink that stains his skin. With a shaky sigh, he runs his hands down the length of his face, cupping his chin as he took in another breath before looking to his wrist once more.

" _I've missed you,"_ it says.

The words hurt him. He covers his wrist and squeezes his eyes shut. He feels dirty seeing their mark and knowing that, for a time, he did not miss them. It is too much. Far too much.

Maker's breath, he thought he _had_ it. He thought he found the one good thing in all of this wickedness and despair. The signs all seemed to be pointing to… or at least he thought they were. He had hoped… but it was foolish for him to hope for something like that. Foolish, and naive.

The sound of muffled whimpers and shuffling blankets pulls him from his thoughts, directing his attention towards Amell as she begins to stir. The nightmares, he suspects. He remembers hearing they were worse for Wardens that joined during a Blight.

When she wakes, Alistair closes the bottle of ink and prepares to venture on.

:::

The trek to Redcliffe is far more taxing than Alistair anticipated.

Aside from the conflict with his other, there is much weighing on his heart and mind. There is a matter of which he must speak to his fellow Warden, as well as the rest of his party: he needs to tell them of his… _familial_ situation.

It had been easy for him to live with the ruse that it wasn't important enough to speak of before. After all, telling someone he's the illegitimate son of a king isn't necessarily war talk, or dinner talk, or any easy kind of talk.Though, if Alistair were to be truthful with himself, he never sought an opportunity to say anything, because he never wanted to tell.To relive the same glares of the Monastery, to feel the same worrisome gloom that hung in the air with the older Wardens would be a living nightmare. It was enough before the Blight, he doesn't know if he would be able to handle it now. He didn't want to become "the bastard prince" once more.

His mind then jumps to that of his other. He wonders what they would think of him, should he ever tell them of his lineage. Would they be disturbed? Awed? Would they even care? He remembers the way they handled the news of him being a Templar, or _, nearly_ a Templar. He wonders if they would react as dryly to it as they did with that news, cracking some witty one liner and making him laugh until he grew hoarse.

Maker, he is beginning to miss them fiercely.

:::

"'Tis most strange."

Alistair rolls his eyes as the party continues to move forward. Golden irises flicker at his side, bidding him to take bait, but he chooses to stay quiet.

"Was it not yesterday that you so _eagerly_ followed her, nipping at her heels like a lovesick pup?" 

"Can't you be awful somewhere else?" Alistair mutters, jaw clenching, her voice slinks into his ears in a way that is as invasive as it is annoying.

"Ah!" Morrigan says, and her smile looks too sharp, too callous as she takes longer strides to walk ahead of him. "So it _does_ speak!"

"Please go die in a bush," he snaps. "Why do you even care?"

" _I_ care not," she remarks, fiddling with the leather of her arm piece. "'Tis merely amusing to watch you squirm under scrutiny."

"That's not creepy at all," Alistair scoffs, he moves ahead to be rid of the conversation, but Morrigan pays him no heed.

"Though, I find it most curious what you've been doing by the fire at night."

Alistair stops. He turns to Morrigan, watching as her pointed nails drag across the skin of her chin, trailing off to the edge of her mouth, tapping her lips softly in feigned inquiry. She does not see his hands clench into fists.

"Such a strange sight, you feathering your wrist with such vigor," she bemuses. "Did your Chantry not train its Templars to write on parchment?"

The heaviness of his heart suddenly begins to burn like hot coals, scorching the depths of his belly to the back of his throat.

"Shut up!" he shouts. "Just shut up!"

He can see the others turn behind Morrigan's wide stare, but he does not relent. The fire in his chest grows with every heartbeat, and he cannot calm himself. There is a part of him that feels violated, knowing that she, of all people, saw him in one of his most private moments. Another part berates himself for thinking it was safe to write his other in the open, even under the cover of night. Maker, if she saw what was on his wrist…

Amell comes in between them, her face screwed into something austere. The expression looks foreign against her soft features, and Alistair does not know how to react.

"That's enough, the both of you!" she commands. "We're fighting Darkspawn, not each other!"

Morrigan's nose crinkles as she continues to glare. "T'was not I that screamed like a Chasined fool!"

"Whatever," Alistair spat, before Amell could speak another word. "Let's just get moving, alright?"

The burning in his throat leaves his voice raw, but he does not care. All that Alistair can think of is whether or not his secret is safe, if he and his other will be safe. Slowly, cautiously, he clutches his left gauntlet.

It is then that he regrets not telling his other he missed them, too, for he does not know when he'll be able to do so again.

:::

Redcliffe is under attack.

The sounds of the militia in the town square is unsettling as they approach. Alistair stares at the soldiers preparing for battle, the roads covered in weapons, and he realizes this is not the townfrom his childhood. No, this place is a war zone.

The rising dead only convince him further, and he wonders how long it will take before all of Ferelden fall into such a state. There is a terrible chance that it could have already begun, that many towns and cities are being ravaged by monsters and undead.

Yet there is still a small, quieter part of his mind that believes they can stop it from happening.

… and he thought telling everyone he's a royal bastard would be tough.

:::

He wishes he could be seeing the castle again from the front gates, entering honestly and openly with Teagan to see the Arl and his family with no bitterness or resentment. Instead, he is greeted by the cold stare of the woman that sent him away, and is forced to see the walls of his old home through secret passages and deceptive movements. Not his ideal homecoming, but nothing about what is happening in Thedas is ideal at the moment.

It is when he sees the child, eyes empty and face contorted in ways that aren't quite human, that the small bit of hope in him dims to black.

Connor's voice is not his own. It is mutilated and stripped to the sound of an animalistic growl. It words are spoken like a foreign tongue, and the sword in his hand shakes as he watches it toy with Teagan and the Arlessa beside him, a broken woman. The vibrant, angry voice Alistair remembers is shrunken to a pitiful whimper, quaking as she begs her son to stop. He doesn't want to think it, but Maker, will they have to kill him?

It orders Teagan to attack, but it's hold does not last long after Connor flees. Alistair is thankful the battle did not have to end with the Bann's death, but worries of what blood will have to be spilt in order to save Redcliffe from the disaster it is in.

Connor must be stopped, but there is no easy way to cast a demon out.

:::

They pass through the wilderness in the black of night, straight for Kinloch Hold.

The party's diligence is like that of a pack of wolves, hungrily searching for the kill that will save them from starvation, and it moves Alistair. They did not need to take such a perilous route to save Connor. They could have easily fell prey to the whim of Blood Magic and ended the fight hours ago, but they didn't. He wonders if any of them would understand how grateful he is for making the choice to save the Arl's family. Kinloch Hold is not a far distance from Redcliffe, but it is enough to cause panic in their hearts. Will the Circle be able to aid them in time?

Moving swiftly through the low bearing branches and brush of the wood, Alistair's heart begins to race faster than he can ever remember. The Circle- they are heading for the Circle.

His veins ignite with newfound adrenaline. Each breath comes fuller, easier, and he quickens his pace. They need the Mages for more than just freeing Connor, they need them for the Blight. They have the right to conscript Mages, even if they tried to deny them. Any Mage… _His_ Mage.

Maker's breath, he could be on his way to finally meeting his other.

:::


	6. Chapter 6

:::

"Something isn't right."

Alistair stands beside his fellow Warden as he reaches the peak of the hill overlooking Lake Calenhad. Her eyes are fixated on a small figure near the shore, and her brow furrows.

"The ferryman… Kester, he's not there," she mutters, taking small steps forward. "That's… That's a Templar."

She turns, her voice quiets to a shaking whisper. "Alistair, why would a Templar be standing guard at the dock?"

There is a pit in his stomach as he looks to the tower, an ominous pillar of blackness amongst the collection of stars in the inky sky. He doesn't want to admit it, but he agrees. Something is very, very wrong.

Damn it. Can't anything just be _easy_?

:::

He hears Gregoir, but he can't piece together what he is saying in his head, or, perhaps his heart won't let them.

" _The Circle is lost. The Tower has fallen."_

His other. Maker's breath, could they be gone? He thinks of the last words they wrote him, how the curvature of each letter demonstrated a sense of elatedness that he was too sullen to acknowledge, too selfish to reflect back. Now, he fears there will be no way to see that happiness again. Alistair stares at a bloodstain on the walls of Kinloch Hold, past the Templars moving frantically about, and wonders to whom it might have once belonged. A numbness takes him, sprouting from both the tips of his fingers and the center of his chest. It is rough, like stone, and aches like an insatiable hunger.

Words try to leave him, but they don't feel like his own. They are a rhetoric, a droning mantra the Monastery snaked into his head for years. His inside fight to keep them from surfacing, trying desperately to strangle the tiny part of him that is still touched by the order, but they find its way out in the end.

"The mages are all probably dead." _No, don't say that! Maybe there's a chance._ "Any abominations remaining in there must be dealt with no matter what."

But could he kill one if he notices the little bit of ink that still marks his wrist mirrored on their own?

:::

There are so many bodies.

Alistair gags as they move through the apprentice's quarters. He's seen death before, but _this…_ Their bodies lie limp, contorted, and their faces still wear the fear each Mage and Templar felt the moment they died. Their wide eyes stare at him, and he is sickened. He thinks of his other, of how terrified they must have been, or could be, and he can no longer hide his emotions.

While the others search for a lingering threat, Alistair searches the wrists of every dead body, letting out a weak sigh when he finds no faded markings on their skin.

:::

There are survivors.

It is not far into the depths of the tower when they find them, a small group of mages fighting the remnants of a demon horde. The sight causes Alistair's heartbeat to fly into revelry, but it is short-lived. He can hear the sobs of the young as Amell speaks to the Senior Enchanter. The othersall share the same fear in their eyes as the bodies only feet away from their safe haven.

They have to try to help them. They can't let the Annulment be put in place.

The party joins forces with Wynne, and together, they move to find the Grand Enchanter.

Alistair hopes he finds his other, alive and well, along the way.

:::

He can't stop looking.

Every body found lying upon the ground is searched. His heart is both sated and broken every time he looks to a cold wrist and finds it bare. He wants to scream out into the halls of the Circle, to think of _something_ that could let them know he is there, and they will be safe if they reach out to him, but he knows that would only cause more strife and tension. He does not want to make his party think he's begun to lose his mind.

But Maker's breath, he doesn't want to let the chance of saving the one person he's connected to slip through his grasp.

:::

Alistair finds a bottle of ink in Irving's office.

He snatches it quickly, and, while the others are searching the First Enchanter's belongings, he frees a patch of skin and scrawls a note:

" _Are you safe?"_

His lungs feel as though they are going to implode. His throats constricts as he stares at his wrist, knowing that every second counts more than any other before.

He prays there is a way for them to write back.

:::

He feels a scraping against his wrist when they reach the third floor

_"Yes.. Are you?"_

Thank the Maker.

" _I'm in the tower,"_ he scribbles. _"Where are you?_ "

The next reply comes slower, causing Alistair to grow more anxious with every demon he and his party slay in his waiting. 

" _What do you mean?"_

He pants as he leans against a stony pillar, shaking as he dips his finger in ink.

" _My name is Alistair,"_ he writes. _"I'm in Kinloch Hold. Tell me where you are and I can save you."_

Another slew of monsters come before he can read their reply. Too many demons, too many abominations and Maleficar. When they reach the fourth floor, he believes he is finally safe. He reaches for his gauntlet as Amell walks to the central door, and—

:::

Goldanna smiles widely as she sits across from him at the table. The house is small, much too small for a woman and five children, but they manage somehow. He wants to change that for them.

"How's the pie, little brother?" she asks, cupping her cheek. "Is it to your liking?"

Alistair stares down at the plate before him, the remnants of a mince pie coating it, and suddenly feels pleasantly full.

"It was great, thank you!" he replies, the taste of it lingers on his tongue, though he does not remember eating…

An elated squeal echoes throughout the home, followed by a laugh that makes Alistair's blood sing. It is the strangest thing he's ever heard, but Maker, it makes him smile from ear to ear.

His other, they're here with him.

"The boys sure seem to like your friend," Goldanna chuckles. "I'm happy you brought someone home with you. You two seem happy together."

Alistair stares off in the direction of the laughter, his head spinning. Maker's breath, they're really here. They're off in the other room playing with his nieces and nephews and they're _with_ him.

"I am," he responds simply. "I.. I'll be right back. I want to go see what they're doing."

Goldanna's grin starts to fade. "Oh don't worry, little brother. They'll be coming in for dinner soon."

He motions to stand, but stops. "Alright."

He can hear their laughter still ringing off the walls, but why can't he picture their face? Shouldn't he know their name—

Goldanna smiles widely as she sits across from him at the table. The house is small, much too small for a woman and five children, but they manage somehow. He wants to change that for them.

"How's the pie, little brother?" she asks, cupping her cheek. "Is it to your liking?"

:::

When he wakes from the demon's hold, his eyes focus upon his bare wrist lying inches from his face, and every available inch of his skin is covered in a familiar, looping penmanship.

_"Kinloch Hold?"_

_"Alistair, I am not in Kinloch Hold. My Circle is safe. I'm safe."_

_"Are you okay? What's going on?"_

_"Maker's breath, please write back! You're scaring me."_

While the other's wake and move to stand, Alistair takes a moment longer to hold his wrist close to his chest, silently thanking Andraste and the Maker that they are safe. He can still hear the laughter that ensnared him in the Fade, but the sight of their writing is more heart-warming and welcoming than any dream.

For once, he is happy that he was wrong about finding his other.

:::

The fight is over.

Uldred, the bloodmage that started everything, is dead. Irving and what's left of the Mages survived, and the Right of Annulment was revoked. Though the Circle is now small and weak, they offer their aid to the Wardens in thanks, and Senior Enchanter Wynne has now joined their ranks in the fight against the Blight.

Despite the desire to trek back to Redcliffe, the party sets camp for the night. They are all too tired from the days excursions to continue moving, Alistair included. Yet, while the rest of them sleep comfortably in their tents, he is still very much awake.

The night's fire is dim, but there is enough light for him to see his other's writing against his skin. In the solitude of his tent, he takes out his bottle of ink, and begins his marking.

_"I'm alright."_

The scratching of his other's quill is almost immediate. _"Thank the Maker! Never worry me like that again!"_

Alistair smiles, still remembering their laugh from the demon's dream. He wonders how closely it mirrors the true sound of their voice.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ he scribbles, his grip loosens with each stroke, making his words sloppy. " _I would have written sooner, but I had no chance until now."_

There is no delay in their response. " _I was afraid I'd lost you."_

He swallows back a lump in his throat. _"As was I."_

Perhaps it was the day's events, or perhaps he finds an uncommon bravery in the comfort of his poorly lit tent, but Alistair does not stop his quill from writing what is weighing on his mind. _"I was afraid I'd lost the chance to know you."_

Several quiet moments pass, yet he does not worry. His heart is beating fast, but it is not anxious. His breathing is heavy, but is not strained. Instead, he finds a sense of elatedness trickling through his bloodstream. It is as invigorating as river water chilling his skin, and as soothing as slipping under warm sheets.

" _You haven't,"_ they finally write. _"Alistair. Is that really your name?"_

He smiles. _"Yeah, pretty bland I know. Doesn't capture my witty charm."_

The feathering of their quill is light, as though they are speaking softly. "Can _I call you Al?"_

 _"Maker's breath, no!"_ he replies.

_"What if I tell you my name?"_

His other doesn't give him a chance to respond. He watches with endearing eyes as each letter curls against the canvas of his skin, and for a moment, he wonders if he's drifted into a dream.

_"Call me, Lissie."_

:::

 


	7. Chapter 7

:::

_"You're from Ferelden."_

Alistair smiles as he reads his other's—no, _Lissie's_ message in the safety of his tent. Only a few days have passed since they freed the Circle, but he, Amell, and their party are on the move once more. Though the mages were successful in their aid to free Connor of the demon, the Arl still slumbers. They search for a lead to find the Sacred Ashes of Andraste, in hopes their fabled power might cure Arl Eamon.

During this time, Alistair and his other have spent nearly every free moment writing one another, piecing together who each other are with every stroke of ink. Now, every star that colors Alistair's wrist is hers, and hers alone. Every crude drawing is a taste of her humor and wit. Every soft curl of a letter is her voice speaking to him, softly in the darkness of the night and in light giggles with every glance he can steal during the day.

 _"It was the dog doodle, wasn't it?"_ he scribbles. " _Completely gave myself away."_

He can almost feel her laughing as she writes, and Maker, its enough to make this connection feel more valid, more _real_.

_"You're not trying to say that stuffed pig was a dog… are you?"_

" _Mocking my artistic integrity?"_ he writes. _"You insult me, Lis."_

He half-expects something lewd in response, but is met with something else entirely. " _I might have spent some time looking at a map of Thedas, searching for Kinloch Hold."_

A lopsided grin catches the edge of Alistair's lips. She's been looking for him, just as he has been looking all this time for her.

" _Oh,"_ is all he says.

_"It seems we are ways away from one another."_

Her words come with a sobering honesty, one that almost leaves Alistair unsettled. He is nervous to say anything more, yet he cannot stop himself from asking, " _Just how far is 'ways away'?"_

 _"Across the Waking Sea?"_ she writes back. _"In Ostwick?"_

Alistair pauses, the soft feather tip brushes the skin of his chin ever so slightly. " _You're in the Free Marches."_

He closes his eyes, imagining a map of Thedas. The Free Marches… Maker's breath he could barely fathom the distance in his mind's eye. An ache begins to creep into his throat, but he refuses to let it take him. He refuses to let the distance deter him from knowing her.

 _"Think I could doggie paddle there?"_ he scrawls. _"Not much of a strong swimmer."_

 _"Only if you make sure to drool as well,"_ she quickly replies. " _I'm sure the salt in your spit will help keep you afloat."_

He laughs with a choke, the soreness now lingering in his chest makes it slightly harder to breathe. " _That idea might be the ugliest thing I've ever imagined."_

" _I think it's brilliant,"_ she writes. " _Any idea where you're here is brilliant."_

Reading her words, he realizes they are more than enough for him. They will always be enough.

 _It's worth it,_ he thinks to himself. _She's worth it._

:::

They travel to Denerim in search of a man called Brother Genitivi, and although he knows his timing couldn't be worse, Alistair wants to ask Amell to make a stop in the city with him. There is a place he wishes to see, a person he wishes to meet, and he fears doing it alone.

He remembers Goldanna's face in the Demon's dream, the kindness in her voice and her warm smile. He reminds himself that it was all a facade to keep him in the demon's clutches, yet a part of him hopes his sister is as she appeared there, before the nightmare truly began.

But what good ever truly comes from his hoping?

:::

_"I think I found my sister."_

The immediate feeling of her quill at work is more than comforting. _"That's incredible! Tell me about her, what's she like?"_

Alistair smiles as he dips his quill deep into the ink pot. " _I don't know. I've never met her."_

 _"You never met her?"_ The curve of each letter is soft, as if she is whispering.

 _"Our mother died when I was young_ ," he pauses, wondering how much he should tell. _"We… didn't have the same father."_

He hopes she won't ask further, is almost fearful of it, and hastily writes, _"Do you have any siblings?"_

Eventually, she replies. _"I did."_

 _"Did?"_ Alistair asks.

Her response takes time. He watches as Lissie wipes away slowly at her ink-covered wrist, and when her words, suddenly too small and unsteady, mark his own, he curses under his breath at his blatant stupidity.

" _No one wants a mage as a sister, Al."_

Maker's breath, he is such an idiot.

 _"I'm so sorry,"_ he finally writes.

 _"It's okay_ ," she responds, though he knows damn well it's a lie.

Silence overtakes them. He wishes he possessed the right words to say, knew what he could do to lift her spirits, but there is nothing. Instead, Alistair watches as tiny drops of ink blot her words. There is something in the way they fall that reminds him of tears. He wishes he could wipe them away.

:::

He can't move out of the small house fast enough.

The sounds of the Market Place couldn't drown out the loud beating of his heart, now ringing heavily in his ears. It was a mistake to go there, he thinks. A complete and utter mistake. He should have focused on leaving for Haven and never whispered a word of Goldanna to Amell.

Amell speaks to him, but her words do not resonate. He cannot get the memory of the demon's dream out of his head, and it leaves him feeling sick. The worst part is knowing that Alistair's dream was a lie. He'll never have that happy family, never know his nieces and nephews, or enjoy his sister's cooking. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tries to calm his fast-beating heart. He'll never hear the sound of Lissie's laughter echo through Goldanna's home.

:::

The way to Haven grows colder as they move through the mountains.

His turn to keep watch is close. He should be sleeping soundly under the pelts and blankets that he lies beneath, yet he is writing her. He knows he'll be a tired wretch, even come close to hating himself in the morning, yet he does not stop himself from taking any chance he can to talk to her. After the way he's been since… Well, he feels he owes her this much.

_"Eyes?"_

He moves the ink pot from under the covers and dips his quill. " _Brown, yours?"_

 _"Green,"_ she writes. " _Your turn!"_

 _"Hair?"_ he scribbles, smiling as he imagines hundreds of different shades that could color her gaze.

 _"Blonde,"_ she replies; a crude drawing of a face vomiting follows. " _Yucky ash color. Yours?"_

_"Depends on the lighting."_

_"Come off it!"_ she exclaims. _"A REAL answer, Al!"_

 _"Does 'perfect' sound better?"_ he writes. " _Or is that too cocky?"_

" _You're no fun,"_ she exclaims.

He laughs at the sight of her words. _"Alright! Blondish, reddish, brown. Happy?"_

_"Oh, I'm absolutely swooning."_

He can almost read her smirk in the twisting lines, and Maker, it make his heart stutter. _"Just take your turn, woman! Yeesh!"_

 _"Baby."_ She draws another face, this time with a tongue protruding from its mouth. " _How about… Siblings?"_

He nearly drops his quill on the ground. _"That's sneaky."_

 _"You met her, didn't you?"_ she writes. _"You've been acting different, haven't been writing as much."_

There is a part of him that feels surprised, even a little flustered at the thought of knowing she can read him so easily. The other part is terrified by it.

" _I did,"_ he answers. " _She was… not who I thought she'd be. At all."_

She wipes her arm clean, clearing half the skin of wrist, and writes. " _Tell me."_

He sees Zevran's shadow move toward him, and groans.

 _"Can you wait 'til tomorrow?_ " he quickly scrawls. _"I promise to tell you everything."_

The light of the campfire fills his tent before he gets a chance to read her response.

:::

In the five years he's known his other, never has he seen such flagrant language spew from her quill.

 _"Soulless, ignorant, piss-headed wretch."_ Her writing is fast and lacks the elegance he is used to reading. _"I can't believe such a horrid woman could be your sister."_

 _"Neither can I,"_ he admits.

He wants to make some kind of witty remark, say something that will make the hurt from all of this go away, but nothing comes to him. _"I'd wanted to know her for so long, and now… I wish I never did. I feel stupid."_

 _"You're not stupid, Al. Too kind, maybe, but you're far from stupid."_ Her swift and unrelenting swipes of anger soften to calmer strokes. _"And you know what? You don't need her. You have people who care about you."_

 _"Like who?"_ He thinks of Duncan, how he had been the only person to care for him in so long, and how he was taken from the world, from _him_ , too soon. " _Anyone that's ever cared about me is gone."_

He scoffs to himself as she continues to write, wiping at his eyes with his free hand. This, it's all far too much. He can't handle it, ANY of it. The time he and the others spent in Haven has been too taxing on him to spend the night damn near sobbing at the thought of being nothing but a lonesome bastard with no family to cherish. He doesn't even want to see whatever Lissie may be writing, yet he looks to his wrist still.

" _I do."_

He can barely feel her quill as she writes, soft and cautious, as though she is revealing a secret. _"I care more than you know."_

Alistair takes a moment to read her words once, twice, thrice, and sniffs loudly as he smiles to himself. There is no stopping the hurt that invades his heart, but Maker, her words are enough to help him forget.

:::

He holds his mother's amulet tightly in his grasp. After all this; Ostagar, Lothering, the attack in Redcliffe, the Circle, _Haven…_ he is happy to see the Arl alive and well, and to have this special treasure back in his grasp. He can't believe he's seeing it completely in tact after all these years, and thinks perhaps Lissie isn't the only person who truly cares for him.

Eamon graciously offers them all a place to rest for the evening, before they embark further on their journey. Though they've gained the power of Redcliffe's Army, and the aid of the Mages, they are still in need of more alliances to defeat the Darkspawn, and take down Loghain.

But they could do none of those things without at least a bit of rest.

Alistair thumbs the locket softly before placing it at the bedside, and reaching for his quill and ink.

 _"I never thanked you,"_ he begins. _"For what you said the other night."_

Despite his heavy eyes, he continues to write. He does not wait for her to respond. Truthfully, he hopes she is already asleep. He doesn't want to fight to stay awake like he knows he would at the touch of her quill.

" _I care for you, too."_

He watches the ink dry before letting his mind slip into the Fade, where he hopes to hear her laughter echo in his dreams.

:::


	8. Chapter 8

:::

"Leliana, tell us a story!"

Alistair sits next to Amell by the fire, smiling as he drinks from his canteen. The day spent traveling to Orzammar is met with no distractions, and they make good time through the mountain pass. Now, the night is young and he is free of standing watch, meaning he not only has time to write Lissie when the others go to their tents, but he'll actually be able to sleep for a bit, too. In the meantime, he and the others celebrate by gorging themselves and encouraging their favorite bard to enthrall them with one of her many tales.

Leliana grins in response, taking her lute and idly picking at the strings. "What would you all like to hear?"

He stays quiet as the others make requests, laughing as they bicker between themselves.

"I personally enjoy the story of Aveline," Wynne states. "Such a tale is truly captivating."

"No," Sten says. "That… _tune_ gets stuck in my head. If you must, sing something else."

"I daresay my fellow companions," Zevran exclaims. "Perhaps a new tale would be best suited?"

The plucking of the lute suddenly stops. "Ah! I've got it!"

Leliana's fingers move across the strings in a way that looks effortless, creating an enchanting melody. Alistair leans closer as she hums along with the music, then everything quiets.

"Look above at that cluster of stars," she says, her voice soft, yet powerful. "There is a story belonging to them, of Alindra and her soldier love."

Everyone is silent as her voice carries over the fire, mingling with the breeze as it catches their very breaths. She sings of star-crossed lovers born of a fair maiden's song, and Alistair isn't sure why, but it reminds him of his connection to Lissie. Perhaps it is the story's tie to the constellations, or the fact that the fair maiden is locked up in a tower, but he can't shake the feeling that _something_ feels familiar.

He is so lost in thought, he nearly misses as she sings the final verse, but is quickly brought back to the moment as the group erupts into applause.

"An excellent story," Wynne congratulates. "Brava!"

"Poor Alindra," Amell sighs. "Such a tragic ending!"

"Ridiculous," Sten grunts. "They deviated from their roles. It was not meant to be."

Leliana hums softly at the comment, and places her lute on the ground beside her. "Love is unpredictable, Sten. It does not always abide to societal rules."

"Love is fickle," he replies, "and it is unnecessary."

"Spoken like a true Qunari," Alistair comments. "But doesn't it seem funny that they'd just fall for each other? Over… what? A song?"

"Song can be a powerful thing," Wynne says. "It _is_ how the Maker found Andraste."

"Or so they say," Alistair retorts. "But they didn't even know each other! Did they ever speak? Would Alindra's father even let her out of the castle?"

"I think you're looking too deep into this," Amell responds.

"Oh, not at all!" Leliana says. "Though the story does not tell it, there are whispers about how the soldier truly gained Alindra's heart."

Alistair cocks his eyebrow. "And?"

"It ties to old magic," Leliana begins. "Somehow, their souls were already bound to each other. It's believed they could speak in a language no tongue knew."

"That doesn't make any sense," Amell comments.

"Perhaps it is not meant to," she replies. "Or maybe the true reason is lost in the past."

As the others begin to share their own opinions, Alistair sits in a strange, almost astounded quiet.

 _…Could speak in a language no tongue knew_ …

Perhaps it wasn't that the language couldn't be spoken, but instead simply _wasn't_ spoken. What if they spoke in another _form,_ one that no one else knew? That no one else could touch? What if…

He glances down at his wrists, and wonders.

:::

" _Well, aren't you the conspiracy theorist."_

Alistair rolls his eyes, not surprised in the slightest by her dry retort. He knows the idea of tales like Alindra holding clues about their connection is strange and rather far fetched, but at this point, what else is he to believe?

 _"Do you have any better ideas?"_ he asks.

_"No."_

"Ha," he mutters to himself, then writes. " _Exactly!"_

_"So…"_

_"So what?"_

Lissie's quill pauses over him. He can feel the soft poking of its tip as she contemplates what to say next.

_"Does this make you my soulmate?"_

Alistair's eyes grow wide, he is almost embarrassed by the immediate heat he feels on the tops of his ears. The thought had always been in his head, lurking somewhere in plain sight, yet never gaining clarity. Thinking about it now, it makes the tip of his nose flush red.

 _"I suppose it does,"_ he finally writes.

Her letters loop swiftly near his palm, simply and lightly, like an afterthought _. "I can't believe I'm bound to an almost Templar."_

Alistair smiles; it is almost too wide and stretches the edges of his lips almost too far. _"What if I told you I'm also the illegitimate son of a dead king?"_

" _I'd say you're a royal bastard."_

A cackle escapes him, breaking the quiet of the night inside of his tent. He moves to write back, to say _he'll need to use that one_ , but her loopy words continue at the edge of his wrist.

"… _and damn near too good to be true."_

:::

Three days have passed, and Lissie is not writing.

Alistair tells himself there is nothing to worry about, that they've gone greater lengths of time without speaking, that she'll write eventually. There are far more important things to focus on than whether or not he'll see her stars on his wrist or her words cover his skin.

Just focus on the Blight, he tells himself. Those constellations will never come back if that's not stopped.

:::

Orzammar is in complete political disarray.

With no king and a divided assembly, he, Amell and the others are forced to step in and help support a new ruler of the Dwarven people. It is the only way they'll gain an army to help fight the Blight. There are far too many tasks to be done, far too much for them to focus on, yet he cannot stop himself from wishing for the itch of her quill.

He hopes she'll come back soon.

:::

He never thought he'd see the Deep Roads so early in his life.

Being there, walking through those dead halls and haunting caverns, it is like being in a living nightmare. His insides scream at him to leave, to go as far away from it as possible. He tries to shake those thoughts from his mind, to focus on finding the Paragon, yet it is futile.

 _This is where Wardens go to die_ , they say. _This is where you will die._

:::

A new king has been chosen, and the Wardens gain a new ally in their fight.

It will be weeks before they reach the Brecilian Forest. There is a strange sort of excitement and terror building inside of him as they move forward, realizing more and more with each passing day how close they are to the Landsmeet, to confronting Loghain. It makes him want to trek faster, harder, so that he can make the bastard pay for what he did to Duncan. For now, it is enough to help him through the day.

However, it is not enough to get him through the night. Instead of sleeping soundly like the rest of his team, he lies wide awake staring at the bare skin of his wrist.

He can pretend not to miss her during the day, but when the moon is out and her stars are shining, there is no escaping the thought of her.

:::

Her quill touches him as they are traveling. It takes everything in him not to run off into the wilds and spend the time it takes for his party to find him reading it. Instead, he lets himself relish in the fact that she is still there, and tells himself she can wait until nightfall.

:::

_"I'm sorry."_

He doesn't waste time taking in the way her letters curve, or how thickly each one is written.

 _"It's all right,"_ he finally responds. _"Is everything okay?"_

Alistair tries his best to be patient as the minutes pass, but anxious thoughts plague him as he lies on his bedroll. He hopes she is still awake. Just one word, _one more word_ from her, and he could rest easily.

_"No, it's not."_

With that, he sits up. There will not be much sleeping tonight.

 _"Talk to me,"_ he writes.

The scratching of her quill is hard as it moves across his wrist. " _I passed my Harrowing."_

His heart stutters. Maker's breath, no wonder she's been absent. He remembers the Harrowing he had to partake in as a Templar recruit, how awful it had been, and he spends a silent moment thanking the Maker for her victory.

 _"I slept for two days, nothing new according to the others,"_ her hand is shaking as she writes, he can tell by the quaking lines of each new letter, _"but when I woke-"_

She pauses, but no movement is made to interrupt her. He hopes she knows he is still there, reading with bated breath.

_"I had a friend here. He was funny, kind, and he cared for me. They forced him into his Harrowing. He wasn't ready, but they made them do it. I didn't even get to say good-bye."_

Her words are smudging, and Maker he wishes he could hold her.

_"When I woke, the templar that told me—I've always fancied her—I couldn't be alone."_

A knot forms deep within his belly. He tries not to think of what might have happened between them, but it's too late. He knows.

 _"It was a mistake,"_ she writes. _"I knew nothing could come of it, but she was_ _here_ _and I thought—Maker's breath I'm so stupid."_

She stops, and he finally lets himself breathe.

_"But worst of all, I feel like I betrayed you."_

Despite the growing ache in his chest, he is quick to give his other an honest reply. _"You didn't betray me."_

 _"Then I betrayed myself,"_ she writes. _"I hurt my own heart by being weak."_

 _"It's okay to be weak sometimes,"_ he tells her. _"Don't be so hard on yourself."_

_"You're not getting it!"_

Alistair swallows hard as Lissie stops to clear her wrist. A palpable tension rises as he waits, looking for something to come, but as the minutes pass, he realizes that he may be waiting on nothing. He wishes there is something more he could do for her, to make all of this go away. How many times has she made his pain feel like nothing? How many times has she fixed him by simply scattering stars across his skin?

As his eyes grow heavy, he dips his quill one final time and begins to draw a constellation. Perhaps it is foolish to think he could fix her the same way she has him, but damn if it isn't worth a try.

:::

_"Tenebrium"_

Alistair smiles at her message, each letter soft and smooth under the early morning light. There is no sound coming from outside of his tent, and he is hopeful this means there will be more time to write her. Maker knows she deserves to see something good when she wakes.

" _Knew that'd be too easy,"_ he jokes. _"I'll get you with a harder one tonight. Mark my words."_

He does not expect to feel her quill so early in the morning.

_"Alistair."_

" _Yes?"_ he writes; it is strange to see her use his full name.

_"I think I'm falling for you."_

The words curl across his wrist in a way that is almost too perfect, and Alistair half believes he is still dreaming. It leaves his chest feeling far too light, and his head somewhere _far_ from the cold Ferelden ground.

With that, there is no stopping his quill as he dips it in ink. There is no calming his heartbeat as it escalates with every brushstroke against his skin.

" _That's funny,"_ he writes, _" because I think I'm falling for you, too."_

:::


	9. Chapter 9

:::

" _What do we do now?"_

He knows her hands are shaking, each quake vibrates through him as her ink scratches against his skin. Their connection, whatever it may be, it feels as though it's growing stronger with every passing second. He attempts to ignore the sound of people moving outside of his tent, hoping he has just a little more time with her.

 _"I don't know_ ," he writes, and he wonders if she can tell his hands are shaking, too. _"But I'm okay with that. So long as we have this."_

He hears Leliana humming outside of his tent. Time is running short, but he wants to know what Lissie's thinking, what she might say next.

She touches his skin as the others call to wake him. Alistair covers his wrist as light invades his tent, just missing the message as Wynne peeks inside.

 _"_ Rise and shine," she says. "Come now, breakfast will get cold if you don't hurry."

"Right," he stammers. _"_ On my way, just—give me a minute."

He doesn't catch the hint of suspicion as she leaves, nor her pursed lips as she gives him a quick look over. Instead, he uncovers his wrist and reads Lissie's reply as soon as the sunlight fades from view.

_"Me, too."_

A smile captures him, one that is wide and toothy and impossible to contain.

 _"I'll write you tonight,"_ he tells her, fighting his hands from writing more than is necessary.

Maker's breath, he better not wake up from this.

:::

The others know something is off.

Alistair is far too quiet as they travel, and his grin far too oafishly large. There is a questioning glint in their eyes as they continue for the Brecilian Forest, and yet, he is met with no inquiry.

Perhaps it is out of kindness that they do not question him, or perhaps they simply do not care enough to know. Either way, Alistair is thankful that they let him revel in his happiness.

:::

Lissie's touch follows him as they cross Ferelden.

It is comforting to know she is always with him, no matter how far he journeys. Each caress is a reminder of her presence, and it is the greatest comfort he possesses to know her words are always a hand's reach away.

:::

_"I thought I already told you."_

He rolls his eyes as he writes. _"Of course! Green eyes and blonde hair. I can picture you perfectly!"_

" _Don't sass me, 'Blondish-Reddish-Brown'. You're just as vague."_

 _"You lie,_ " he retorts. _"You could paint a picture of me with what I've given you."_

Her quill comes a moment later. _"You're right."_

She wipes her marks clean and begins to draw. Alistair cackles as a crude portrait of himself begins to form, with beady eyes, a scandalous grin, and an oversized nose that looks _completely_ wrong.

 _"How's that?"_ she writes beside it.

 _"You're very close,"_ he jokes, _"but I have much better hair."_

She quickly fluffs the top of the portrait more. _"My sincerest apologies."_

 _"All is forgiven_." He pauses, considering what to say next. _"Now do you."_

She doesn't respond immediately, but after a few moments, she begins to draw a face beside his. It is squared, with a flat line for a mouth and large ears that attempt to hold back wild hair, though it still manages to cover one of the eyes. Freckles coat the cheeks and high eyebrows give the face an awkward, embarrassed expression.

" _Well,"_ she writes. _"How's that?"_

Overall, it is just as dramatic and unappealing as his own portrait. Yet, Alistair cannot stop staring at every detail, memorizing each piece as though it were the very Chant of Light.

" _That might be the most beautiful face I've ever seen."_

:::

He sees her in everything.

The trees that surround the Dalish camp, could their leaves match the color of her eyes? The different smiles he sees offered to Amell as she aides the Elven people, could any of them be identical to hers? He feels childish for letting her captivate his every thought, yet he wonders, does he captivate hers, too?

:::

He stares at the monstrous form before him, eyes wide in terror as it snarls and whines in pain.

_"Please…kill me…"_

She was a person once. It is impossible to see now, but he knows. He thinks of the elven man waiting for his beloved to return to him, for _her_ to return to him _. Maker,_ it's almost too much.

He can't stop himself from thinking, what would he do if such a fate befell his other?

As Amell takes the poor creature's scarf off her corpse, he prays he may never have to answer such a question.

:::

He feels her as he moves through the Forest.

Though he wishes he could welcome the distraction, the werewolves that hunt him and his party leave no time to talk. Ignoring her touch is almost painful, but he manages to make it through the night without her.

:::

With the curse of the forest lifted and a new Keeper named, the Dalish promise their aide to the Wardens. Alistair and the rest of the party venture back to Redcliffe in preparation of the Landsmeet. He is eager to return, more so than he thought possible.

When night falls, he is the first to stand watch. The Darkspawn grow more threatening as they journey, nearly successful in an attack on their previous camp. Though his eyes are heavy, he tries to keep himself occupied by looking at the constellation on his wrist.

Though conversations have grown to be more custom between them, there are nights when words feel too heavy a burden to carry across their skin. Instead, they choose to cover each other in things they've seen through the day: a drawing of a flower, a diagram of a complex alchemical formula, a silly doodle, or, more often than not, a constellation that the other has to name.

He's had the answer to her latest constellation ready since the third star, but he waits contently for her to complete it. He finds peace in watching her, a kind that soothes the rougher parts of his soul, leaving him calmed and ready for sleep.

It is when she places the final star, that he finally writes.

_"Peraquialus"_

She wipes her wrist clean, a sign that he is correct, and goes silent. He knows she is taking a moment to ponder what constellation to draw next, and in that moment a thought takes him. 

_"Tell me something,"_ he writes. _"Why the stars?"_

Her response comes slowly. _"What do you mean?"_

_"What made you start drawing them?"_ he asks.

" _Oh,"_ she replies, there is a fidgeting in her letters that almost reads like embarrassment. _"Well, they calm me."_

" _How's that?"_ he inquires.

She taps her quill against his skin, a collection of black dots growing at the center of his wrist.

 _"I guess I can't say I'm the best at handling my emotions,"_ she begins. _"I panic, and I panic easily. As a child, I would just… hit things. A lot. It helped, but then my magic came, and suddenly hitting things turned into accidental bursts of lightning."_

A seed of worry plants itself in his mind. " _Doesn't sound like something the Chantry would appreciate."_

" _Oh, they don't,"_ Lissie confirms. _"But I was lucky. My Circle had a Templar, one that cared. He'd calm me by counting out constellations when things would get hazy. It wasn't a cure, but it did help."_

Her message unsettles him. That's how Templars are supposed to be; they should look for ways to help Mages, keep them in control of their magic until there is no other option. They're meant to _protect_ them.

He wants to say something, but focuses his worries into humor instead.

_"When I get nervous I eat a lot of cheese."_

There is no immediate response. In a panic, Alistair wipes away the message and tries to think of a way to apologize, but Lissie responds before he can dip his quill in ink.

 _"Maker's Breath, I think I snorted loud enough to wake the whole tower."_ Her writing is crooked and sloppy, and he could almost swear he feels her laughing. _"Are you sure you're not a Marcher?"_

 _"What do you mean?"_ he asks. _"Do Marchers stress eat cheese?"_

" _Please tell me you're joking!"_ she scrawls. _"We Marchers damn near WORSHIP cheese! I think it's a crime in some cities to be lactose intolerant."_

Alistair raises his brow in surprise, and smiles.

" _And just when I though I couldn't be more in love with you."_

:::

"That's a neat trick."

Alistair turns swiftly to spot Wynne only steps away from him, arms crossed and lips curved into a smirk. Her eyes are focused on his wrist, and there is no doubt about in his mind: she's seen his other's mark.

In seconds, he berates himself in a thousand of ways for checking Lissie's messages while keeping watch. His heartbeat escalates to explosive palpitations. He knows the Enchanter is trust-worthy—she and him have grown rather close over the journey, but can he trust her with this?

"I— _uh_ , it's not what you—!" he stammers, but the Mage chuckles softly.

"There's no need to panic, Alistair," she states, uncrossing her arms and holding them out to the fire. "I know it's nothing harmful." 

He flinches as she takes a seat beside him.

"However, I _am_ curious," she states, matter-of-factly. "It's not everyday you see someone make words appear on their skin."

" _Shh!_ " Alistair whispers, eyeing the camp. "Could you keep it down?"

Wynne holds up a hand in submission. "My apologies."

Holding his breath, he finally lets out a sigh once he's certain they're safe, and pulls the sleeve of his tunic up high enough so that his and his other's writing is completely visible. The Enchanter's eyes widen as she reads over each word, her mouth parting slightly in awe.

"My, my," she whispers. "How long has this been going on?"

Alistair licks his lips in thought, his throat going dry as he thinks of the first night he saw stars color his wrist. He's never told _anyone_ of his other, but at this point, there was no turning back.

"About five years ago," he replies, it feels strange to say it out loud.

She smiles. It is small, but soft, and it lets him feel a little more at ease.

"No wonder you were so curious about Alindra," she bemuses. "You've had your own fair maiden this whole time, I see."

He breathes out a laugh, but says nothing.

Wynne examines him, her eyes calm as they scan his expression. "What's wrong, child?"

He looks to her, sucking a piece of his bottom lip betweens his teeth, and ponders what to say. Should he tell her anything more? Would it be wrong to reveal his other's name? That she's a mage? That he's fallen for a person an ocean away from him with no real chance of ever meeting? No, it's too much to tell.

Yet, it seems as though just by looking at her, she understands everything.

A gentle hand grips his shoulder, and it is strangely reassuring. "Get some sleep, I'll stand watch the rest of the night."

"Are you sure?" he fumbles. "Don't you need to sleep?"

Wynne chortles. "I don't need as much sleep as you do, if you haven't forgotten."

He gapes at her for a moment, remembering her…condition, of sorts. "Right."

"Right," she repeats, and moves her hand to smack him on the back. "Go on, don't make me tell you twice!"

"Ow!" he exclaims. "Okay, okay!"

When he reaches his tent, he turns to the Enchanter. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome," she replies. "Oh, Alistair?"

"Hm?" he responds.

"I'd love to hear about her," she says. "Whenever you're ready."

He lets his fingers roam against the opening of the tent, and nods his head.

:::

The next morning, Alistair beckons Wynne to walk with him at the far end of the group.

"Since you asked nicely," he says, pulling out a piece of parchment with a poorly done drawing, with large ears and wild hair. "Her name is Lissie."

:::


	10. Chapter 10

:::

He tells her everything.

It is surreal, speaking of his other so openly. He watches Wynne's expression as he spouts every recallable memory, readying himself for her disbelief, worry, scrutiny, _something._ Yet, there is none. She gifts him only softs smiles as he runs at the mouth.

"…and when we got to the tower," he recalls, "I had hoped that, maybe, she'd be there."

She nods as she listens. "But she wasn't?"

"No," he answers. "She is… ways away from Ferelden."

"I see," Wynne replies. "I doubt that makes what is to come any easier for you."

Her voice tugs at something as she speaks his name. There is something hanging at the end of her words, something he doesn't want to address.

He shrugs, his gaze now studying the dirt trail before them. "When is anything 'easier' now-a-days?"

"Alistair..."

He does not turn to look at her as he says, "Yes?"

There is a pause. Wynne stands beside him, her presence is soothing despite the growing tension.

A hand rests against his shoulder, gentle, but firm. "Never mind, Dear. Let's catch up with the others."

He nods, and they trek forward.

:::

The night's fire does little to keep him awake.

Alistair stares listlessly at the flickering red and gold hues, letting his mind wander to thoughts that he's been trying all this time not to think.

He knows what Wynne was going to say, and he's starting to realize that he can't pretend what awaits him isn't real.

:::

 _"_ Are you alright?"

Leliana stares at him from across the campfire, her eyes fixated on the half eaten bowl of stew in his hands. "You seem… distant."

Alistair can't meet her gaze. He chooses instead to fill his mouth and shrug his shoulders. He knows it will not sate her, but it is all he can do to avoid the inevitable questions that will plague him.

"The journey leaves us all tired and distant," Wynne speaks, turning towards him. "Perhaps you need rest?"

Alistair swallows and nods. "Perhaps I do."

She nods. "Go on then, child."

He lets his bowl drop to the ground, Amell's mabari can have his left overs for all he cares, and mouths a quick, "Thank you" to Wynne. Nothing else in the world sounds quite as good as resting his head and slipping away from all of this.

Well, almost nothing.

:::

Their stay in Redcliffe is short lived.

Arl Eamon urges the party to move to Denerim immediately, and although Alistair agrees that the Landsmeet can wait no longer, he is hesitant.

_"You have a responsibility, Alistair. Without you, Loghain wins."_

The Arl's words are a nightmare realized. All those years hiding his father's sin, wishing to be more than just "the bastard son of Maric", and now he must use that branding to save his country. Try as he may, the reality of what may come will not disappear. He cannot make the fact that he is to take claim of Ferelden's throne go away.

Maker, he never wanted this.

:::

_"Someone's been quiet lately…"_

He stares at her writing for what feels like ages. There is a teasing lilt in the way the letters curl, but the frailness of each word's lining shows she's growing uneasy by his silence.

He hates this. A screaming need to reassure her pangs him, but he cannot lie to her. He cannot pretend to write her as though he isn't heading to what may be his bloody coronation.

What in Maker's name will he tell her if this actually goes through? What will become of them if he becomes king?

A swift, cool movement brushes his skin, and he watches as her words begin to wash away, and, without another mention of his absence, Lissie begins to mark her stars across his wrist. Each grazing of her quill is soft, like a gentle caress. He takes this moment to forget what awaits him in Denerim, and memorizes what it is like to feel her touch.

:::

It feels so strange to be at this estate.

Alistair slips away from Amell and the Arl to walk the familiar halls he once played in as a child, at least when permitted. There are still familiar faces found amongst the servants, despite the grey in their hair, and he wonders if any might recognize him. Most likely not. _Hopefully_ not.

A song catches his attention as he passes by the kitchens. He hasn't heard it in years, but just the faintest hum of it is enough to revoke an overflow of memories. Days of knobby-knees aching as he ate cheese and bread by the kitchen doors, listening to the Elvhen maids sing; of crying as he huddles next to a sleep dog, humming to himself to calm his shaking. Yet, the memory that strikes him hardest most of all, is staring in awe at the first set of black stars on his arm, recalling the words of a song once forgotten. Maker, this is too coincidental.

"The ladies here are lovely, no?"

Alistair practically jumps at the sight of Zevran, and the sound of his laughter causes him to groan. 

"You know," he says, his smile far too wide, "if you are needing a moment with one, or two, I have no problem assisting you in—"

"What?" Alistair baffles. "N- _no_! Maker, please stop talking!"

"Ah, my sincerest apologies." The elf's smile turns into a bemused smirk, and he can feel his ears turning red. "You seemed very… enraptured, so I assumed."

The singing ends at the sound of their presence. Alistair silently mourns the loss of the hymn as the servants work in quiet. With a sigh, he rubs his wrist half-heartedly, wishing more than anything that familiar itch would come to him.

But even that voice has gone silent.

:::

Alistair ducks behind the nearest thicket.

The guards outside of the Arl of Denerim's Estate nearly catch sight of him, but the Queen's handmaiden is quick to make a distraction.

"You know," he whispers to Amell, standing close to his side. "When we came to find allies against Loghain, I never thought his _daughter_ would be a likely candidate."

"Maker save the Queen, I suppose?" she chuckles, and darts to the next hiding spot.

Though it proves difficult to laugh at her quip, he still finds himself muttering, "Or Grey Wardens, anyhow."

:::

There is so much corruption within the walls of this estate.

The further he and Amell go, the more he is left stunned at the level's of Loghain's treachery. How far will this man go to take Ferelden? Allowing his own daughter to be imprisoned, letting the children of others be held captive, tortured even? He is left outraged.

He cannot let any of this go. It'd destroy him to not see this man bleed for what he's done.

:::

They were so close.

He wasn't ready for that damned ambush.The battle… Maker, they didn't stand a chance.

The last thing he remembers seeing is Ser Cauthrien standing above him, light shining off the edge of her blade.

:::

He wakes inside a prison cell.

He is cold, covered in sweat and something that smells vile. The memory of saving the Queen is hazy, but he is sure they were successful, weren't they? Maker, everything _hurts._

A scream echoes, and he is quick to his knees. Terror strikes him as he quickly realizes he has been stripped to his small clothes. He has no weapons, no protection.

This is _not_ good.

There is a stirring at his side, and he looks to see Amell. There is no noise coming from her.

He crawls to her, pushing against her side softly. "Hey, hey!"

She doesn't respond, and so he pushes harder. " _Hey!"_

Suddenly, she whimpers. She curls into herself before opening her eyes, but she is breathing.

"Thank the Maker," Alistair whispers. "Are you alright?"

She sits up slowly, still disoriented.

"Look," he whispers, scanning the area for any guards. "I heard screaming a moment ago, I think we're in some kind of torture chamber—"

She focuses in on something, and points to his arm. "What is that?"

His brow furrows before looking down. "What's wha--"

The entirety of his wrist is covered in ink. Instinctively, he pulls himself away, hiding the markings behind his back like a child.

"It's nothing," Alistair says. "What's important is figuring out how we're going to get out of here."

He tries not to think of the others waiting for them, of the fate of Ferelden if they don't make it. He tries not to think of the markings on his wrist, and the girl who made each one.

"What do you think we should do?" he asks.

Maker willing, he'll soon get the chance to read what those markings have to say.

:::

"Alistair."

They walk in unison beside the other soldiers, closing in on their escape. He dares a glance Amell's way; she looks strange in a warrior's armor.

"What?" he whispers.

"When we get out of this," she says, quieting as a soldier says the password, and the gate to their freedom opens. "I want to know what you're hiding."

The sunlight hits him, and his stomach is in knots.

"Alright," he tells her, and they run.

:::

 


	11. Chapter 11

:::

He does not expect her to look so hurt.

The journey back to the Arl was short after they escaped Fort Drakon, a part of him almost wishes they met more challenges. Yet, there were none, and now he finds them both in a guest room of the Arl, with Amell’s nose nearly touching the skin of his wrist. She is quiet, too quiet. He wonders what in Maker’s name could be running through her mind in that very moment.

A loud sigh breaks the tense silence.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.

Andraste, there are hundreds upon thousands of reasons why he didn’t tell her. Even now, after five years of writing and knowing, even loving Lissie, he still feels like their connection is completely unfathomable. He tries to formulate a thought, a word, a sentence, but nothing comes.

“Alistair.”

The candle’s light beside the bed flickers across Amell’s face. Her stare is enough to make him feel like a child.

“You promised,” she says, crossing her arms. “After Redcliffe and the whole ‘prince’ thing, there’d be no more secrets.”

“I know,” he finally replies. “It’s just… This isn’t something easily explained.”

“We’re a team.” Her voice speaks with a pained conviction. “A team has to trust each other.”

“I do trust you,” he explains.

He covers his wrist and runs a hand down his face. “This isn’t a lecherous father with a crown. This is forgotten magic and myths becoming reality—”

“Kind of like a Blight that no one believes is coming?” she interrupts. “Or a fabled Witch of the Wilds saving us from certain death?”

Alistair’s gaze moves back to her. He is surprised to see how softly she stares at him.

“We’ve fought dragons, lifted an ancient werewolf curse— Maker we found the Ashes of Andraste!” She rests a hand on his shoulder, and sighs. “We’re in all of this together, Alistair. After all we’ve been through, does this really seem so terrifying?”

Her words are sobering, and he realizes what a fool he has been. How could he think he couldn’t come to her, his fellow Grey Warden, the woman who stood beside him throughout everything since Ostagar, a true sister, and tell her of his other? Of all the people he could trust, it should have been her first.

With one final squeeze of his shoulder, she lets go, and all the tension between them dissipates.

“All right,” she says. “There is much to do still before the Landsmeet, let’s get moving.”

He stands beside her and smiles. “Lead the way.”

:::

The smell of the place is what hit him first.

It reminded him of the Circle; the stench of smoke, bile and death lingering around every corner, and it stuns him. There is no reason for anyplace, the Alienage included, to ever smell like that.

Yet, as he stands in the littered entryway, he is hit with that very memory. They move further towards the dilapidated homes, and he gags. Maker’s breath, what is going on in this city? How could the King and Queen let their people live like this?

… Could he let this happen as king?

:::

The Elves don’t seem to know foul play is afoot. There is one that acts as though they are born with a sense for it. Yet, they do not search for help.

“Oh! You’re ‘helping’ us, are you, shem?” an elvhen woman, Shianni spits. “Like Valendrian and my uncle Cyrion? You helped them, didn’t you? Helped them never to be seen again!”

It is only in her learning they saved her family from the dungeons that her fury ebbs.

Though her rage is tangible, it is understandable in a terrifying sense. He’d always known the injustices Elves faced, but to see it… He can’t believe he and so many others have been so benign to it.

It needs to be fixed, and he’ll be the one to do it if he must.

:::

Tevinter.

Alistair grips the hilt of his sword with blistering rage.

Selling Ferelden’s own to blood mages across the Waking Sea? Loghain’s treachery knows no bounds, it is for certain.

:::

Amell smites the slaver almost instantly, her disgust apparent as she stares down his corpse.

“Let’s go,” she mutters, wiping blood from her brow. “We end this now.”

:::

They’ve been locked up in that room for what felt like ages, speaking of the atrocities they bared witness to throughout Ferelden. The others preoccupy themselves with Maker knows what, but he cannot seem to focus on anything but that damned closed door.

“How is your hand?”

Alistair turns to see Wynne smiling softly as she comes to his side. The sleeves of her robes shield something held in her grip.

He squints at her, slightly confused by the comment. “Fine… thank you?”

Her lips purse, and she looks down at his wrist. “Have you checked on it lately?”

“Oh,” he remarks. “Umm.. No, I haven’t.”

“You should,” she states, pulling a small bottle of ink and a single quill from her sleeves.

She opens the door beside them, peeking in to see that it is empty, and says. “I’ll be standing right here if you need me.”

A smile takes him, and he leans down to place a small peck on Wynne’s cheek. “Thank you.”

She attempts to hide her grin, but fails. “Make it quick, child. I assume they will be done shortly.”

:::

His arm is covered in constellations.

He stares at them all, struck silent by their every detail. He never felt them being placed as they moved through the Alienage; Maker she must have drawn so lightly. It leaves his heart feeling light enough to lift from his body, and Maker he aches for her.

There is so much he wants to say, so much that may change within only hours, but there is nothing more he wishes to tell her other than how empty he’s felt without her. There is nothing in his mind and heart except her inky stars, and how they’ve been a beacon of comfort during all those wordless nights where this journey leaves him hopeless.

A knock comes from the other side of the door.

“They’re coming,” Wynne whispers. “Hurry up!”

There is not enough time. With a heavy heart, he packs the items away. Perhaps it’s better this way, he thinks, as he moves to slip out of the room. At least when he finally gets the chance to write her, he’ll know the fate that lies in wait for them.

It couldn’t be worse than a star-clustered river of tears, could it?

:::

It takes everything in him not to strike Loghain down where he stands.

Alistair grinds his teeth together at the sight of him, willing his body to stay put until it’s time. He doesn’t realize he is moving until Amell’s arm stops him.

“You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne and every soul here knows it!” he declares. “The better question is, ‘Who would pull the strings?’”

He damn near smiles as Amell stands before him. “Ah! And here we have the Puppeteer!”

There is a crazed, virtuous gleam in the bastard’s eye as he stares her and the rest of them down. Alistair can feel his rage growing stronger by the second.

Maker help him, he might lose his mind before the Landsmeet can make a decision.

:::

His fellow Grey Warden speaks with a passion that he could never rival, her voice booming with the truths and horrors Loghain has committed, rebuking his every cheaply veiled fallacy. His face is maniacal, enraged at her damning him before the very people he needs to be his allies.

“YOU TOOK MY DAUGHTER!” he screams. “OUR QUEEN, BY FORCE! KILLING HER GUARDS IN THE PROCESS”

The nobles gasp, Alistair is left stupefied.

“What arts have you employed to keep her?” he spits. “Does she even still live?”

The way he is snarling at Amell… He is so lost in his paranoia that he believes his own lies. He truly thinks they’ve done something to hurt Anora.

With a dramatic boom, the very woman in question storms into the room. “I believe I can speak for myself!”

:::

The Queen’s complete rejection of her father leaves Alistair stunned. He knew she claimed to be on their side, but to see it happening, and to witness her eloquence and ferocity as she ensnares every member of the Landsmeet… There is no way he could never compare to that.

“So the Warden’s influence has poisoned your mind, Anora?” Loghain whispers. “I wanted to protect you from this.”

There is a pain in his voice that sounds so foreign. For a moment, his deranged glare softens to a broken gaze, but it is not enough to save him.

The Landsmeet is unanimous: all but one stand with the the Warden. Though it seems a clean victory, Loghain is too far gone to accept defeat. He screams of treachery, foaming at mouth with a rhetoric that now falls flat to their ears.

“NONE OF YOU HAVE SPILT BLOOD THE WAY I HAVE!” he seethes, eyes wild and teeth bare. “HOW DARE YOU JUDGE ME?!”

:::

They call for a duel.

The Landsmeet declares it a battle until one party yields, but Alistair knows this is a fight to the death. He moves to the front of their party, standing inches from Amell as the final terms are spoken.

Loghain’s eyes turns cold as he stares Amell down. “Shall you face me? Or will you choose a champion?”

Alistair voice carries throughout the hall before he even recognizes it as his own.

“Let me.”

Amell turns to him, her eyes wide with surprise.

The tips of his fingers go numb, but he doesn’t relent. “Please, let me do it.”

The seconds after feel as though they last for ages. No words are spoken, but Alistair can feel their stares speaking of what will come should she choose him. A small, shaking intake of breath whispers of her fear for him; the furrowing of his brow assures her he is ready to fight.

Amell raises her chin high, and makes the declaration. “I choose Alistair to be my champion.”

His sword his unsheathed the moment he hears his name, and he steps to the center of the room.

He is ready.

:::

In many ways, he is outmatched.

Loghain’s strikes are most accurate, more painful, but he is slow. Alistair watches as the warrior hits and retreats, taking more blows as he looks for his weakness. He finds it; there is a moment when Loghain’s footing is weak, and he smashes his shield into him.

He attacks with a primal ferocity. Every strike of his blade cuts with the pain of each man and woman that died from Loghain’s cowardice. Every war cry echoes the screams of those who looked to that beacon, but saw no soldiers coming to their aide.

The warrior strikes him down, but Alistair is quick to get back to his feet. He swings his sword into Loghain’s side, and he falls. Red stains the edges of his mouth, and he chuckles.

“So, there is some Maric in you after all. Good.”

He tries to stand, but crumbles under his own weight.

“Forget Maric,” Alistair seethes. “This is for Duncan!”

The blade rises and falls with a sickening slice, and Loghain is no more.

:::

When Amell speaks, Alistair can hardly believe what she is saying.

“Anora, you will remain Ferelden’s queen.”

His heartbeat is reverberating in his head. His name is being called, but he can barely hear it over his mind screaming he’s free.

“Alistair!” The Queen’s voice echoes off the palace walls. “Swear before the Landsmeet that you renounce all claim to the Ferelden throne for yourself and all of your heirs!”

“Wha—yes! Fine!” he stammers. “I never wanted it in the first place!”

All of his fingers and toes tingle with an unknown sensation, and he almost forgets to breathe. After all of those years, he is free of his father’s name. He will never have to fear the burden of his lineage. He is his own man.

:::

When they leave the Palace, Alistair hugs Amell tightly.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Her grip around him tightens. “You’re my brother, Alistair. I couldn't—”

He can feel her swallow back the rest of her sentence. Quiet settles between them, but it is not unsettling. After the months of fearing if they’d ever reach the end, they finally find themselves in a moment of peace.

Amell is the first to break the hold. Sniffing, she pulls away with a small smile.

“Let’s go,” she tells him. “Riordan needs to speak with us, and I’m suspecting you need to speak to someone else.”

Alistair grins. “Yeah, I definitely do.”

:::

_“I love you.”_

The sentence sits on his skin like a tattoo.

Riordan’s message left Alistair with a sobering knot in his stomach. Despite their victory against Loghain and acquiring every bit of aide they could against the Blight, one of them must die in order to defeat the Archdemon. Riordan offered himself for the task, but something in him whispers that it won’t be so simple. There’s a great chance they may die in this fight regardless.

He is unsure if Lissie will respond at this late of an hour, but he does not mind. If he never speaks to her again… No. No, he can’t think like that.

A knock on his door echoes through the room.

“Come in,” he says, quickly pulling the sleeve of his tunic down.

Amell slowly makes her way in. Her expression is grim, she looks as though she might be ill. It wouldn’t be surprising, after what they just learned.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

Her eyes are fixated on the floor, and he notices her bottom lip is trembling. “Alistair, I need to talk to you.”

:::


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely happy with this (there's quite a bit I wanted to play up on and I feel like I couldn't capture certain moments the way I'm imagining them), but I've stared at this chapter far too long and just need to post it. Lol. Hope you all enjoy!

:::

"I need you to bed Morrigan."

His heart falls to the pit of his stomach, and he laughs. The sound is dark and hoarse, feeling foreign in his throat as it reverberates off the bedroom walls.

"No," he coughs. "No, you're joking."

Maker, this can't really be happening.

Amell steps toward him, her voice shaking. "Alistair, please listen—"

"To what?!" he exclaims. "To how _sleeping_ with that-that _Maleficar_ will somehow stop the Archdemon?!"

Fingers pull at his hair as he stands before her. She tries to talk to him, but he hears nothing over the sound of his blood pulsing in his ears. He tries to slow his breathing, to think of how many stars are in Servani, but nothing will calm his raging soul.

"Alistair, please—"

 _"NO!_ " he shouts. "Bloody Hell, _YOU_ do it!"

His anger echoes, and Amell flinches

"The taint," she whispers. "It will be in the baby…"

His eyes widen in horror. A _baby?_

"It will call the Archdemon to it." Her voice strains. "It will try to, but it won't kill it."

Amell lifts her chin; her eyes now red and swollen from tears. "The baby, and everyone else, will _live_."

A quiver takes her bottom lip, and just like that, the facade she had worn so well breaks. "Alistair, if you do this, nobody _has_ to die." 

She falls into him. The sound of her sobs is ugly and raw, and it is terrifying. To see someone that is always to strong, so stable, crumble like this before his very eyes…

In that moment, he is reminded of the many times he would wonder how Amell seems so composed, so _strong_. He knows the weight of the world rests upon her shoulders, but he never thought she might crumble beneath it.

"I'm sorry," she sputters. "I'm—I'm so sorry… Please…"

His body goes numb as he whispers. "Okay."

:::

He walks to the room alone.

The embers of a dying fire silhouettes Morrigan's figure across the hallway floor. He swallows back a burning lump as he watches it move.

 _You can do this,_ he tells himself. _No one has to die, this way. This is for everyone, for Amell_.

He breathes in and takes a step towards the door.

_For her._

:::

Gold irises flicker, and he is frozen.

For a moment, Morrigan's stare is open. There is no sneer, no grimace as he stands before her. She is shocked to see him. It is.. strange to see her look at him without disgust.

"T'would seem a decision has been reached, then."

Her hands move to cradle her middle, rubbing her bare skin as she turns her back to the fire. Bile rise in the back of his throat. Every muscle in his body is _screaming_ at him to run.

Yet, he looks to his wrists, both covered by the sleeves of his tunic, and mutters, "Let's get this over with."

:::

Their clothes lie discarded beside the bed. The lone candle that lights the room casts foreboding shadows throughout the room. Morrigan's breath is damn near kissing the skin of his ear, her fingers inching across his shoulders, and yet, he cannot will himself to touch her.

"Maker…" he mutters. "S-slow down a moment. Can we just… Talk a second?"

She responds faster than he expects, nearly jumping off his lap as she crouches at his side. "A strange time for that, is it not?"

An attempt to roll his eyes is made, but it fails. He breathes in and out once, twice, thrice, trying in vain to calm his raging nerves. Maker, can he do this?

"How do you know this will even work?" he whispers. 

Morrigan grumbles under her breath, covering herself with folded arms

"'Tis my mother's magic," she states. "I would hope you would be wise enough to know old powers such as hers would not fail."

There is a pause. "Would you ever doubt the markings on your wrist belong to the other part of your soul?"

The bile in his throat drops and is replaced by his fast-beating heart. An attempt to speak is made, but Morrigan quiets him with a wave of her hand. "I have known for quite some time."

Of course, he thinks. It is no surprise she's known. She must have caught him countless times writing to her as she lurked in the night.

"We are running out of time, Alistair." Her words come fast, but they are not brash. "Is this to be or not?"

He wants to scream, _"No!"_ , but he knows how dire it is that he lie with her. "I'm trying, it's just—"

Her voice is nearing agitation as she says, "Pretend I'm _her_ if you must, but we need to start this. _Now_."

She does not wait for him to respond. Instead, Morrigan moves over him once more, reaching for the bedside candle to blow out its light.

Suddenly, he realizes: in the darkness, he does not see spiteful eyes. There is no grimace, no taunting voice to make him feel like he is nothing. He can imagine the gentle caress that colors his skin comes from _her_ hands, that the pants against his ear are _hers_.

In the darkness, he can pretend.

:::

After, they do not speak.

He moves slowly, as though he's become so numb he has to reteach his hands how to put on each garment. His eyes do not wander to the sight of Morrigan as she dresses. They do not desire to seek out her body, nor do they yearn for the memory of her skin.

There is nothing in this room he wishes to remember.

She stands before he can pull his tunic over his head, clearing her voice as she sets a flame back to her candle.

"Though I do not wish to say this now, at the risk of cursing our victory," she whispers. "I… I hope you find her, when all of this is done."

He mutters nothing in return as he leaves.

:::

He walks back to his room alone.

The silence of those blackened halls is deafening. Each boom of his heart sounds like the sickening beat of a war drum, it is enough to make him nauseas.

He stops only when he reaches the foot of his bed, staring longingly at the sea of blankets that lie before him. Yet, he can not seem to touch it. The sweat on his skin is thick and leaves him feeling dirty, too foul to lay in such splendor.

But Maker, how can he not feel filthy after what he did?

With a heavy sigh, he removes his tunic and wipes his brow with the dampened fabric, his eyes half lidded and pained as they stare blankly at the ground. No, he tells himself. He can't think like that. What he did, he _had to do it._

…Didn't he?

It is then that he sees four words, curling across his arm. Each letter is drawn with a tenderness he does not deserve, and he swallows back guilt as he reads them. 

_"I love you, too."_

In an instant, Alistair collapses against the edge of the bed and vomits.

:::

Sleep did not find him that night, yet he still meets the rising sun awake and ready for battle.

Amell can barely look him in the eye as they trek forward, though truthfully, Alistair does not know if he could brave doing the same. They march to Denerim in a strained quiet, both feeling the weight of the fight that awaits them.

:::

The streets of Denerim are littered with debris and bodies.

Their army strikes through the enemy as they fight to regain the city's outer walls, but they are greatly outnumbered. There's no way they all will last past the Main Gate.

A new plan of action is made: only he, Amell, and two others will go to face the Archdemon, while the others lead the army in the battle against the blighters. He is terrified, but that fear is barely given a thought as he follows his fellow Warden to Fort Drakon. They can not allow themselves to be afraid.

But Maker, he hopes they make it.

:::

For every darkspawn they slay, two bodies are found mutilated along their path. The sounds of the Archdemon can be heard from within the Fort. The rumbling of its war cry vibrates through him like a tremor.

"We're close," Amell says. "Come, let's be done with this."

:::

Seeing the Archdemon, all scales, fire and death, is something far worse than the nightmares he and Amell shared those nights in camp.

The Dragon slew soldiers at them like dolls, smoke seething from its jaws as it prepares to strike. Riordan is no where to be found, and he assumes the worst. Yet, Amell takes no moment to panic. Without a second thought, she calls forth help from their armies, and they charge. The sword and shield in his hands have never felt heavier, but he does not falter.

He has to live through this. For Ferelden. For the Grey Wardens. For his friends.

And especially, for her.

:::

There are many close calls.

Alistair is certain his ribs are broken after a swift swipe of the Archdemon's tail, but still, he and the others persist.

It is hard to believe when the beast finally falls. He rushes toward it, but Amell is faster. With a quick tug to a fallen soldier's sword, she sprints to make the final blow.

He watches alongside Morrigan, wide eyed and terrified as his sister slices deep into its belly.

A glance is made in the witch's direction, but not long enough to see the fear in her expression.

Amell sinks the blade into the Archdemon's head, and everything goes white.

:::

The next few hours pass by him in a blur.

All he truly remembers is running to Amell's side and hugging her tightly as she starts to cry.

:::

Anora's coronation comes faster than expected.

Barely a day after the Archdemon's defeat, Ferelden crowns their Queen. Despite his initial thoughts of her, Anora proves to be the ruler the country deserves. She stands at the throne with a sense of belonging, one that Alistair could never rival.

As their new queen calls Amell forward, he thinks to himself that it could have been him up there, making the same proclamations. Albeit, less elegantly, but still. _That could have been him._ He is still so thankful that Amell was there that day to make the final call.

"Grey Warden," Queen Anora begins, her voice clear and concise as it echoes through the royal chamber. "It is hard to imagine how you could have aided Ferelden more. I think it only appropriate that I return the favor. Is there any boon that you might request of Ferelden's Queen?"

Alistair watches Amell as her face goes blank with surprise, then suddenly smile brightly as she mutters something in response.

Anora _chuckles_ , whispering a reply back before returning to her people and proclaiming, "Let it be known that Ferelden's mages have earned the right to watch over themselves. The tower shall be restored, and returned to The Circle."

His jaw drops.

"Can she do that?" Alistair whispers to Leliana, and she giggles.

"She is the queen," she says, matter-of-factly. "I believe she can do whatever it is she wants."

When Amell rejoins them, he claps her on the back with a grin. "Look at you! Freeing your fellow mages like some kind of big hero, and it only took you one Archdemon slaying to do it!"

She laughs while giving him a slight shove. "It'll take time to actually go into effect, but I can't believe it! Queen Anora is really going to fight to make this happen!"

Suddenly, Amell's eyes grow suspiciously wide. "Alistair."

"What?" he asks.

"Tell her to come to Ferelden," she says.

Suddenly, the sounds of the hall all go quiet. "What?"

Amell's smile is ear-spitting as she speaks. "The Circles transfer mages all the time. Have her transfer here, before it becomes free."

He stares at her in complete disbelief.

"She…" he begins. "She could come here."

Amell nods her head.

"I have to go," he says, and runs to the nearest set of doors to find somewhere quiet, and alone.

:::

_"Come to Ferelden."_

Her quill comes to him in seconds. " _I'm sorry, what now?"_

" _Transfer to Ferelden's Circle. You can do that, can't you?"_

 _"I could,"_ she begins. " _Well, I'd have to put in a request. Most likely won't get accepted unless I become an Enchanter… but wait. Wasn't Ferelden's Circle attacked? Why would I go there?"_

Alistair's hands are shaking so terribly, he hopes she can read his handwriting.

" _The Circle gained its independence,"_ he replies. " _Won't be completely free for at least a year, but it will be. You could be a free mage."_

With a deep breath, he adds, " _You and I could finally meet."_

" _I supposed it's settled then,"_ she writes.

Alistair's smile turns oafish. _"Does that mean you're coming?"_

Her next set of words send him into a state of pure euphoria, far beyond any dream.

_"Andraste herself couldn't keep me away."_

:::


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give focus to Alistair's coping (or lack thereof) of the events during the Blight. I don't feel like I was able to capture what I wanted, but I can't hold on to this any longer. I need to move forward! Hope you enjoy.  
> P.S. I swear it gets better.

:::

In the months after the Coronation, the small family Alistair and Amell built disperses.

It is a strange kind of bittersweetness, watching them go one by one. They had all grown so close, and now he may never see them again. The only person he did not bid farewell is Morrigan, for she disappeared soon after the Archdemon was slain. A part of him is happy to be rid of her, but the other part cannot stop thinking about what happened the night before the battle. Her plan, it _worked_. That means the Ritual must have been successful, and that would mean…

She is carrying his _child._

It is the nightmare that haunts him in the lonely hours of night, when Lissie is asleep and he is left alone to wander his own mind. It corrupts his thoughts, killing the laughter that sings him to sleep and filling it with sickening moans and burning skin.

Maker, what if he sees her again? What would he do if he met the child? How would he react? How would _Lissie_ react? 

Andraste's ashes, he needs to tell Lissie.

:::

_"Silver is dominated by…?"_

Lissie's quill moves quickly across him. _"Luna"_

Alistair checks the small tome at his side and smiles.

" _Good,"_ he replies. _"Name the first six steps ofAlchemy's magnum opus."_

 _"Calcination, congelation,_ " she begins. _"Fixation, dissolution, digestion and…"_

There is a momentary pause. " _Shit. Evaporation and condensation step. It starts with a 'D'… Disintegration?"_

Alistair checks the tome once more. " _Distillation._ "

A mess of ink blots out her error and the words are wiped clean. " _Andraste's knickers. Why do I ALWAYS forget that one?_ "

" _You're getting better,_ " he writes her. " _Remember, it's only been a few months._ "

" _My future apprentices will be further ahead than me_." Her quill fumbles against his skin in frustration. " _The curriculums are getting harder every year._ "

" _That's why we're practicing,_ " he jots. " _We must assert our intellectual dominance over the measly magical tots, remember?"_

" _Lest the children overthrow the Circle and traveling becomes impossible,"_ she replies, like a mantra. " _For piggyback rides won't get me to Ferelden._ "

A strained, tired laugh tickles the back of Alistair's throat. Rubbing his face, he looks to the nearly invisible candle at his side, wondering how late they've been working this time. Nights like these have become commonplace ever since the ending of the Blight; straining his eyes reading magic-based texts, memorizing simple alchemical formulas,as well as drawing glyphs and understanding their geometry and elemental impacts. At times it can be a bigger headache than when he was forced to study the Chant, but he doesn't mind.

" _You must be tired,_ " Lissie writes. " _We can continue this tomorrow night._ "

His heartbeat spikes. The memory of cold, golden eyes staring at him flashes in his mind, and he panics.

 _"No!"_ he quickly scrawls. " _I'm fine! Let's keep going!"_

There is no arguing to stop, and soon they both fall back into the thick of another lesson. Despite how tired he may be,Alistair would rather spend his sleepless night with her. It's better than slipping away into haunting dreams of a night he'd rather forget. 

:::

Amell is named the Commander of the Ferelden Grey.

Alistair is proud to see his Warden sister rise to the highest rank. After everything they've gone through, she deserves it. He can think of no one better to take Duncan's place.

Unfortunately, this title does not come with good news. Reports of Darkspawn hoards moving to the coastlands reach them, and Amell makes the choice to go to Amaranthine to meet with the other wardens, all while finding recruits for the order in Ferelden.

"You're sure you don't want me to come?" Alistair asks, seated at the edge of Amell's bed while she packs; he hopes his desperation to not be alone doesn't show in his voice.

"For the hundredth time," she sighs. "Yes, I'm sure. I need you here, just in case."

"In case of what?" he retorts. "A hoard pops out of the ground and asks for directions?"

She gives him a deadpan stare before throwing a robe at his head. "Enough from you, now. Your _Commander_ demands it."

"Yes, sir!" he salutes, and a small boot zooms past his ear.

:::

_"Tell me about Ferelden."_

There is an airy touch in her words, almost forgoing the fact that she's in the middle of reciting the buildings of a complex transmutation. He ponders reminding her exactly what she's supposed to be doing (she's so close to ranking to Enchanter and needs to focus), but the raging headache building behind his eyes sways him to do the opposite.

 _"What would you like to know?"_ he asks.

 _"Anything,"_ she writes. _"Everything."_

 _"Alright,"_ he begins. _"Well, it's cold. If you like gray and brown, you'll love it here, because those are the only colors you see. Food's pretty good if you like only one flavor."_

He swears he can feel her laughter bubble inside of him with every stroke of ink.

_"Sounds like the Golden City to me!"_

A snort escapes him. " _It's not much, but it's home."_

_"I can't wait to be there with you."_

Her words cause a cataclysm of emotions to burst in his chest. While his heart is a squibbly mess of happiness, his mind is screaming at him to tell her about Morrigan.

 _You're lying to her_ ,it says. _She deserves to know._

Alistair breathes out through his nose and writes, _"Neither can I."_

He'll tell her, but not tonight.

:::

There are nights when he wakes from the sound of his own screams, when his dreams are too real, too vivid to the point that he can't bear to stay within them.

Sometimes, they are filled with monsters. Their talons ripping at his eyes and slicing through his armor, eager to take every bit of him apart and devour what is left.

But sometimes, they are hands that trace across his skin. Featherlight and daunting, torturing him as his blood ignites in anticipation of what comes next. His screams are not always the same those nights, and he hates himself even more for that.

:::

When it comes time for Amell to go, he finds it hard letting her.

If he were to be truthful, he would admit to himself that he's afraid to be without her. Ever since Ostagar, they've been inseparable. He isn't sure he's ready to be without her yet.

"Alistair," she whispers, her words muffled by the wool of his cloak. "I can barely breathe."

He loosens his grip, but not enough for her to break away. "Sorry. It's just—"

"I know," she says.

She leans her head against his chest, and everything grows quiet once more. "I'll miss you, too."

He heaves a shaking breath and manages to relinquish his hold. "Write me."

Amell nods her head with a smile. "Every day."

"I'll hold you to that," he laughs, though it drowns from the straining in his throat.

With that, he helps her onto her horse, stifled chuckles escape them both as her mabari hops around it, curious over the beast's size. "Safe travels, sister."

A wide smile grows as she wipes her eyes. "And to you, brother."

She grips the reins and ushers the horse onward, the mabari chasing close behind, nipping at the horse's heels.

:::

_"I slept with someone."_

His stomach is in knots as he watches the ink dry. Every possible outcome of this conversation plays out in his head, each one significantly worse than the last. He tries to think of how he'll explain it to her, but that thought alone is enough to make him laugh at himself.

_Just tell her it was to save Thedas! You had no choice but to bed an evil witch and conceive a demon baby that ate the soul of a dragon! Tell her you didn't even like it—that much! She'll totally believe that!_

He can only imagine the intensity of her anger. How many obscenities she'll scratch into his arm before leaving him in silence, and that would be the best outcome of any of them.

Maker, this is going to end badly.

:::

He waits for the rest of the night for the feeling of her quill to itch his skin, but it never comes.

:::

The next morning, he wakes with red eyes and a pain in his head.

Though he knows it is pointless, he looks to his wrist for a sign of her, but there is nothing. Why would there be? After what he said, what he did? Who knows when she'll speak to him again. Or if.

The urge to scream takes him, but he remains quiet. There is no point, he thinks. She cannot hear him.

He closes his eyes once more and wills himself to sleep.

:::

Not feeling her touch is Hell.

When he was with Amell and the others, he could pretend to not notice how long he would go without her. Impending Doom is a great distraction, he had found, but now, his friends are gone. Amell is out of reach, and he is directionless. There is nothing to keep him from his own thoughts, to stop him from reliving the countless horrors he was forced to endure. Did he ever get a chance to really cope with the things he's seen?

For the first time in five years, he truly feels alone, and it is terrifying.

:::

_Alistair,_

_All is well in Amaranthine. Well, as well as you could figure. The Darkspawn threat still lingers, and they can do things… It is too much for me to explain in writing._

_I have a request of you. I need you to contact the Wardens of Orlais. I know, "Why not send me back to the Werewolves? They're much more hospitable." But it is only temporary. I'm hoping this threat can be dealt with without the use of more forces._

_"The pup", as you so lovingly call him, misses you. I may miss you a little as well. It's not the same without you and the lot here._

_The Raven will know where to find me. Write soon._

Alistair rereads the letter too many times to count. Though it has only been a few days since Lissie's absence, it has been weeks since Amell departed. He smiles as he wipes at his cheek, a little embarrassed at how easily his emotions are compromised. It isn't the same as hearing her voice, but it is enough to make him feel less lonely.

:::

_Commander Amell,_

_It's very strange to write that, you know? Saying it is one thing, but putting it in ink? Too official. I might be a little wary of you now._

_By the way, thank you for so eloquently ordering me to go to the LAST place in Thedas I ever want to step foot in. Truthfully. I'll send you a moldy baguette to show just how grateful I am. I know, how kind of me._

_This business in Amaranthine sounds suspiciously dangerous. Should you need me there, don't hesitate to call for me. I'll be patiently waiting in a satin-filled nightmare._

_Alistair_

The Raven bounces at his side as he tries the message to its leg. When the deed is done, he lifts it to the sky and watches as it takes flight to the North. Traveling alone will not be easy, but it is better than waiting hopelessly for something better to come his way.

With that, Alistair packs his belongings and sets his sights to the west.

::


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I would like to thank Captain Ceranna for allowing me the absolute privilege of playing with her characters and her own story of Ostwick's Circle. Laneda is a wonderfully done character, and I wish I could have put more of her in this, but that will come at a much later time. Please go check her and her amazing OCs out. Her Trevelyan will be making grand appearances throughout parts of this fic as well.  
> Also, THANK YOU to those that have stuck with me throughout this fic! I don't say it enough, but it means so much to me. I don't think this would still be going without all of your kind and encouraging words.  
> Here's to updating sooner rather than later! :)

:::

It is hard for him to sleep at night.

One would think he'd sleep like a babe, traveling along the edge of Waking Sea, but the beach's sand is coarse and irritating and gets _everywhere_ , and he is most definitely too Ferelden for the rising bloody heat.

What he finds to be the worst of it all, however, is there is nothing to hide the stars. Their brightness mocks him in the quiet of the night, dancing through his closed eyes and imprinting every constellation into him so that even in his dreams he finds no peace. They taunt him, never letting him go a moment without remembering he is alone.

He doesn't need their constant reminder, though. All he needs to do is look at his barren wrist to know that.

:::

It's been two days since he's seen one of Amell's ravens.

He worries that he might have strayed too deep into the Frostback Mountains, but does his best to trek the way he planned. He'll have to check which direction Solium is facing when the sun sets, just to be sure.

:::

He spots a great bear feeding on the carcass of a ram. His stomach pangs are pushing him over the edge, but he stays calm, cautious. Fighting one of those on his own is damn near suicide, he reminds himself. He just needs to work around it, maybe find the ram's herd and get himself _something_ to eat. 

An itch creeps up the side of his wrist. He nearly stumbles at the feeling, but does his best to shake it off and keep quiet. There is too much happening to wonder what may or may be lingering under his sleeve.

:::

_"I can't come to Ferelden."_

The words sit on his skin like a burn, or perhaps the phantom of a burn. The night's fire flickers over the message, scrawled in a fast and unkempt hand that he is not used to seeing from his other.

When he pulls the quill and ink from his sack, he hesitates. He is so unsure of what to even say to her. Yet, he aches to have her talk to him, to know _why_ she waited until now to speak.

With a scratch to his brow, he dips his quill and scribbles a reply:

_"You can't, or won't?"_

Her quill is quick to his skin, it is almost shocking how intense it feels.

" _They already know about Ferelden's Circle. Won't let us transfer, even though they need Enchanters. Said it's a Heretic's Circle now. 'Mages aren't meant to be free'."_

Alistair is stunned. His hand hovers over his arm, but he doesn't know what to say.

" _I don't care about what you did,_ " she writes. " _It hurt, but it doesn't matter. When I came to Ferelden, we could let it go. Be different people. But now…"_

She pauses to wipe her wrist clean. " _It's getting bad, Al."_

At this, he dips his quill in ink and writes, " _What's happening?"_

_"After Ferelden, the Templars got mean. Coming down on us harder for stupid things. Can't even bathe without one keeping watch. We got sick of it. Tried to speak out. They said we were inciting a rebellion and they—"_

She wipes her arm clean once more. " _They turned an elvhen girl Tranquil. She was harrowed, Al."_

Alistair stares down at his wrist in horror. The very same sinking feeling that ate at him in Kinloch takes hold, and he can almost smell the rotting corpses that littered the halls.

 _"Called her Maleficar,"_ she continues. _"All Laneda did was give herself a Vallaslin. "_

Dead green eyes flash violently in his mind, and he nearly gets sick.

He can't let her stay there. Not anymore.

_"I'm going to get you out."_

He'll use the treaties, conscript her if he has to, but there is no way he's letting her live in that. Amell might kill him, but he'll make her understand.

He moves to dip his quill in ink, to explain to her that he's a Grey Warden, but she responds before he can put ink to skin.

_"No."_

He shakes his head in shock. " _What do you mean, no?"_

 _"I can't leave, not yet,"_ she begins. _"I know it sounds crazy, but I need to stay."_

 _"What in the Andraste's name makes you think that?"_ His quill writes sharply, the letters bold and loud. _"Please, enlighten me!"_

 _"I can't leave these people, Al."_ She writes with equal force, her words thickly lining his wrist. _"My name helps, I have some lenience. I could do something. I'd hate myself if I didn't try. Laneda can't die for nothing."_

Alistair feels panic boiling deep within his belly. _"Lissie, this is a terrible idea. There's no way—"_

Her quill comes to his skin fast, interrupting him. _"Can't argue. They're making rounds. I need you to trust me."_

In an instant, he drops his quill and covers his face with his hands.

Maker's breath, what is he going to do?

:::

When he arrives in Jader, he is stunned to find Amell waiting for him.

Her Mabari blindsides him, knocking them both to the ground and coats his face with slobbery kisses.

"Alright, alright! Enough, you!" Amell laughs, weakly attempting to pull the dog away. "Let me get a hug before you lick him to death!"

Maker, it is _great_ to hear her voice again. She barely gets a chance to reach out her hand before Alistair jumps to his feet and pulls her into the tightest of hugs.

"You're evil for making me come here," he mumbles. "If I wasn't half-starved I'd be throwing the biggest of fits."

"You say that as if _I_ want to be here," she whispers back, squeezing him tightly before breaking away. "Come, there's a room at the inn for us. We've still got a ways to go before Montsimmard."

Alistair makes a face as they begin to move into the city. "Right, but can I ask you one thing?"

She makes a quick glance his way before turning a corner. "Yes?"

Sucking in a breath, he tries is hardest not to whine, but fails. " _WHY?!"_

:::

"How is Lissie?"

He nearly drops his bedroll at the sound of her name, but Amell doesn't seem to notice. She is too busy rummaging through her things, patting the top of her Mabari's head as it hangs off the side of the room's small bed.

"It's been so long since we've seen each other," she continues. "How's she doing? Is she close to coming to Ferelden?"

His jaw tightens at the question. Slipping under the cover, he adjusts his head against his pillow.

"No." Is all he says.

The Mabari's panting goes silent. He can feel her eyes on him, but she says nothing.

"She… She can't come."

The sound of shuffling echoes from beside him, and suddenly, her hand is on his shoulder.

"Tell me everything," she says.

:::

The light of the candle nestled between them begins to dim as he reaches his story's end. Amell listens with a quiet intensity, he'd nearly forgotten how easy it is to talk to her.

"She wants…" A sigh escapes him, and he scratches the side of his face. "She wants to stay. She thinks she can help them somehow, but…"

He tries not to think of Kinloch Hold, the smell of death lingering at every corner. "What can she really do? The Chantry's not going to change just because she wants it to try really, _really_ bad."

He doesn't expect her to stare at him like he's a complete idiot.

"You know," she begins, cupping her cheek with the palm of her hand. "For someone who just stopped a Blight with only one other Warden and a patch-work army, you sound a little hypocritical."

Alistair openly scowls at her. "Ha-ha, you're hilarious. Listen to me, _laughing_."

Her free hand slaps him lazily on the shoulder. "Shush it."

"But really," he replies. "What would _you_ do? How would you handle this?"

Amell is quiet, but only for a moment. "I would do exactly what she is doing."

Alistair rolls on his mat towards her. He says nothing, only waits for some kind of explanation.

"Despite how much the Circle is a prison," she begins. "It's always going to be a Mage's home in some way, whether they like it or not. If I were in Kinloch when the uprising happened…I wouldn't want to run. I'd want to fight."

With a sigh, she lowers her head to her pillow. "She wants to leave behind something better for those who have to stay, and I understand that. Why do you think I chose to save Kinloch? To rebuild it?"

Alistair rests his chin on the tops of his arm, his brow furrowed in thought.

"I never thought of it that way," he says.

"Obviously," she jokes, and he swats at her head. "Let's go to bed, we can talk about this more in the morning."

"Alright," he replies, though he does not believe he'll be able to fall asleep so quickly.

Amell blows out the candle between them, and everything goes to black. All that can be heard is the mabari's soft snoring from above.

"Hey Amell," Alistair whispers.

"Hmm?"

"Why did we let the dog have the bed?"

:::

The Grey Wardens are a secretive bunch. He knows this well, but there is something about Clarel's lot that is beyond that. When they arrive in Montsimmard, they are not greeted with the kindness he'd hope his brothers and sisters of the Order would offer. Truthfully, there is no true greeting at all.

"Think it's cause we smell bad?" Alistair asks Amell, and eyes her Mabari. "When is the last time you washed him?"

The Mabari grumbles as Amell quickly nudges him. "Shush it, or I'll make you sit through an entire performance of _The Sword of Drakon."_

Alistair openly gapes at her. "You wouldn't."

"It starts at dusk tonight," she states. "Shall we fit you in some nice Orlesian doublets?"

Flinching, he turns his attention forward. "You win this time."

She walks ahead as they reach Clarel's chambers and smiles at him like the cat that ate the canary.

 _What a brat_ , he thinks, and follows suite.

:::

There is something about Clarel he doesn't trust.

The Orlesian Commander's office feels far too small for her and Amell's personalities. He notices how her brow furrows as his friend recalls the events in Amaranthine and Vigil's Keep. It's desperate, he thinks. Desperate and calculating.

She begins to pace, bringing her hands to her mouth to hide the muttering under her breath. When she finally stops at her desk, Clarel grips the frame of her chair and looks to Amell.

"Must we have him here?" she questions; the way she says it reminds him of Lady Isolde, speaking about him as though he is not right there, pretending he doesn't exist. "This… it is very sensitive information."

"He is my second," Amell replies, crossing her arms to silently warn the Orlesian of her offense. "He needs to hear everything before I leave."

This catches Alistair's attention: second—leaving?! Is she leaving him again? For how long? A panic begins to rise in him, but he reminds himself he must remain calm. He hopes there is time after this to have a proper melt down.

Clarel gives a curt nod. "And what is it that you wished to discuss?"

Unfolding her arms, Amell walks toward the desk.

"The Architect's plan to cause a wide spread Joining was well-crafted," she begins, pulling out a thick, folded pile of parchment from her robe. "It got me thinking. I've done some research, and… I believe I may be able to find a cure to the taint."

The room becomes deathly quiet, and Alistair is certain that melt down may happen faster than anticipated.

:::

Amell is traveling to the North.

Her first stop will be Weissupt, then after he does not know. There are still many secrets she must keep, but she promises Alistair he will be the first to hear them all.

"I need you to keep close contact with Clarel," she tells him in the confines of her room. "She's good intel, but I don't trust her."

Alistair wants to groan, but nods in response.

"I won't be leaving for another day," she adds. "There's more I need to look into while I'm here. But you…"

She pulls from her satchel a small bottle of ink and a quill. "You have someone you need to talk to."

A nervousness grows, prickling the back of his neck and the tips of his fingers as he stares at the items in her hands. She can sense it, he knows she can.

"Remember what we talked about," Amell says, placing each object into one of his open palms. "Now go."

He smiles. It is small, a little weak, but it is a smile non the less.

"Alright."

:::

_"Lis?"_

It takes him nearly an hour to write her name. His anxiousness over whether or not it'd be safe to mark her, on top of his worry that she may not even reply if he did left him unable to lift that damned quill from the ink. There's so much he needs to say, _wants_ to say. Maker, he hopes she'll listen.

 _"I'm not really sure how to say this, but I think I get it now, why you want to stay._ _It's your choice, and I'll be here in any way you need me."_

His quill pauses, almost stops completely, but he forces himself to write what is weighing on his heart. " _I've seen what happens to a Circle when it gets bad. If anyone, and I mean ANYONE starts to whisper about blood magic, please don't stay. Tell me and I'll get you out."_

He takes a deep breath, trying not to remember what it felt like to hold the wrists of those dead bodies, praying he wouldn't find her amongst them. _Keep going,_ he tells himself. _Stop holding it in and tell her._

_"I can't lose you to that. Not now, not ever."_

His entire body is in a fit of spiking nerves as he tries to calm his breathing. There is still so much more he wants to say, but Maker, he doesn't know if he can. He keeps his lips tucked tightly against his teeth, fearful that if he left them lax, they'd begin to quiver, and nothing good can come from that.

 _Just breathe_ , he thinks to himself. _In and out now, just keep breathing._

He almost doesn't notice the chill that touches the fingers on his right hand. It starts at the tips, trickling over the grooves of each digit and down to the edge of his palm, and with a sniff and a heavy set of blinks, he is stunned to find it painted black. A soft rubbing fills in the creases as he stares, and his heart feels as though it is in his throat.

It is then that he feels a gentle touch upon his other hand. It is warm and calming, coloring his palm as it wraps around the top of his hand, and it _squeezes_. His eyes widen as he watches the ink swirl softly against the outer edge of his thumb, caressing the skin in a soothing circular movement, and he grins.

Her hand is small, he realizes, turning his own to view the imprint of her fingers. Small and slender, but Maker, her touch is powerful. He closes his eyes and tries to wrap his hand around the ink's shape, letting himself pretend that she is there in that room with him.

It is the first time in months that his soul feels at peace, and in that beautiful and quiet moment, he realizes he would do anything to truly hold her hand.

:::


End file.
